CHARLES DICKENS 



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CHARLES DICKENS 

AND HIS GIRL HEROINES 





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CHARLES DICKENS. 



I 



CHARLES DICKENS 

AND HIS GIRL HEROINES 



BY 
BELLE MOSES 

AUTHOR OF 
"LOUISA MAY ALCOTT" AND "LEWIS CARROLL" 




D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

I 9 I I 






?i 



Copyright, 1911, by 
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 



Puhlishecl October, 1911 






Printed in the United States of America 



©CI.A300008 



TO 
MY FOUR GIRL FRIENDS 

KATHARINE, EVELYN, HARRIET and LAVINIA 

THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 



PREFACE. 

Those who know and love their Dickens, know 
also that though he was a man of high character, 
and deep and sincere purpose, he had all the pe- 
culiarities of a great genius. On whatever side 
one viewed him, one saw a different picture. His 
moods were as changeful as the shifting of a 
kaleidoscope, yet always interesting, always true 
to some simple law within himself, forming — 
from the bright, restless particles floating in the 
space of his brilliant mind — something symmet- 
rical and beautiful for the world to look at. He 
has painted pictures which can never fade; he 
has created men and women, boys and girls, as 
living and real as those we know to-day, and 
though he died nearly half a century ago, we can- 
not help feeling that only his quick, moving pres- 
ence has vanished. The soul of the man flashes 
through his books, which will hold and enthrall 
future generations as they have held the genera- 
tions of the past. 

Nowhere does his art shine forth more tenderly, 
more beautifully, and more truly than in the crea- 
tion of his girl heroines. Here he showed the skill 
of the sculptor in the simple grace with which he 

vii 



PREFACE. 

endowed even the humblest of his girls. And it is 
chiefly in connection with this side of his many- 
sided character and genius, that we will view the 
man, hoping to present him to our readers — if 
not in a new light — at least with the glow of the 
deep and kindly interest, and the gentle courtesy 
which always marked his intercourse with girls, 
in his books — and out of them. 

In the preparation of this book, I have been 
aided through many sources, but my chief thanks 
are due to the libraries — the Traveling Library, 
the St. Agnes branch of the Public Library, and 
Columbia University Library, for their very effi- 
cient help in my work. 

Belle Moses. 



CONTENTS. 

PART I. 
THE BOY. 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — In the Very Beginning i 

IL — The Real David Copperfield ...... 19 

III. — The Little Dickenses at Home 41 

IV. — The First Start in Life 58 

PART II. 
THE YOUNG MAN. 

V. — The First Sparks of Genius 83 

VI. — The First Novels and What Came of Them . 102 

VII. — Master Humphrey's First Tale ..... 125 

VIII. — Dickens and the Historical Novel . . » .147 

PART III. 
THE BOOKS THAT MADE THE MAN. 

IX. — Dickens and America 171 

X. — The Spirit of Christmas 192 

XI. — The Girls of Dickens's Day 219 

XII. — Little Housekeepers in Dickens-Land . . . 247 



CONTENTS. 

PART IV. 
THE MAN WHO MADE THE BOOKS. 

CHAPTER ^^^^ 

XHL— Dickens, the Many-Sided 275 

XIV.— Dickens and His Friends 299 

XV.— Dickens at Home 3i4 



PART I. 
THE BOY. 




CHAPTER I. 

IN THE VERY BEGINNING. 

E all begin pretty much the same way; 
little red, crumpled bundles of hu- 
manity, tightly tucked up in bassinets 
which we soon outgrow. Some of us 
kick more than others; some of us crow more than 
others; some of us cry more than others; but we 
all hit out aimlessly with our tiny fists, and chal- 
lenge the world. 

In America all men are born equal, but in Eng- 
land this is not so. The majority of English 
babies come into the world quite humbly (only the 
favored few look down from the heights), and this 
was the case with little Charles John Huffam Dick- 
ens, who sprang from the great Middle Class, 
which has produced more great men and women 
than all the peers and princes of the realm could 
boast of. We have his own words describing the 
day and hour of his birth: 

" I was born (as I have been informed and be- 
lieve) on a Friday at twelve o'clock at night." So 
says little David Copperfield, and everyone knows 
that Charles Dickens and David Copperfield were 



2 CHARLES DICKENS. 

doubles. Dickens's initials were C. D. (he 
dropped John Huffam as soon as he had a voice 
in the matter), and David's were D. C, easy 
enough to turn round when there is a real boy 
hiding behind the boy in the book. And it is quite 
true that Charles Dickens was born at Portsea, on 
Friday, February 7, 1812 — *' Leap Year," one of 
his biographers tells us, " at a few minutes before 
midnight." ' 

The house in which he was born was like many 
other houses in Portsea; indeed, it was one of a 
row and not in any way distinguished from its 
fellows. Each house had a gabled roof and a 
dormer window; each had its little garden in the 
front, separated from its neighbor by a thickly 
growing hedge. Now, however, having once con- 
tained the cradle of Charles Dickens, Number 387, 
Mile-End Terrace, Portsea, has become quite a 
famous little residence, one of the landmarks of 
this shipping center. John Dickens, the father of 
Charles, was in the employ of the Navy Pay Of- 
fice, and upon his marriage to Elizabeth Barrow, 
1809, was transferred from Somerset House to at- 
tend to the paying off of ships at Portsmouth, so 
the young couple resided at Portsea, near by. 
Here three of their children were born; Frances 
Elizabeth — better known as Fanny Dickens — in 
November, 1810; Charles John Huffam Dickens, 
in February, 1812, and a third child, Alfred, who 
died when he was a baby. 



IN THE VERY BEGINNING. 3 

The overshadowing name of our small hero was 
a compliment to his mother's father — Charles, to 
his own father — John, and to his godfather — 
Christopher Huffam, also connected with the 
Navy; but the simpler name, which the world 
knows, is the only one by which he was ever called, 
and gradually the others faded from the minds of 
all who knew the " small queer boy." 

There were in all eight children in the Dickens 
family; the three above mentioned who were born 
in Portsea; then followed Letitia, born in 1816; 
another daughter, Harriet, who also died when she 
was a baby; Frederick, born in 1820; Alfred 
Lamert, born in 1822 ; and Augustus, in 1827. 

The six surviving children were quite enough 
for one poor man to take care of, and John Dickens 
lived to prove that he was a poor hand at taking 
care of anybody. He lent money as freely as he 
borrowed, and so this good-natured, improvident 
man was always in hot water, from one cause or 
the other, and loose pennies did not lie around 
promiscuously in the Dickens household. Quite 
early in life the little Dickens children learned to 
regard pennies with awe and respect. 

Charles Dickens's memory dipped 'way back into 
his childhood, so far back, indeed, that it seems 
hard to believe that the baby mind could hold, even 
for a moment, the impressions he recalls. Yet he 
tells us that they are not merely the things he had 
heard, but what he had seen with his baby eyes. 



4 CHARLES DICKENS. 

and thought out in that wondering baby brain of 
his, which began its active work at a time when 
most babies suck their thumbs and stare into 
vacancy. 

His first impression of himself is very vivid; 
a laughing, golden-haired baby boy, taking his first 
steps from his mother to his nurse. 

" I believe I can remember those two at a little 
distance apart, dwarfed to my sight by stooping 
down or kneeling on the floor, and I — going un- 
steadily from one to the other." [This was little 
David Copper field's experience.] And he adds: 

" This may be fancy, though I think the memory 
of most of us can go farther back into such times 
than many of us suppose." He has a further 
memory of a pigeon-house on a pole in the center 
of their back yard, without any pigeons in it, 
and of a dog-kennel in the corner — without any 
dog. 

He remembered also a long passage — terribly 
long it seemed to his childish eyes — leading from 
the kitchen to the front door, with a dreadful dark 
closet on one side, where provisions were stored for 
family use. There were tubs and jars and tea- 
chests in this room, behind which any unknown 
terrors might hide and jump out on one, so the 
small boy with the big imagination ran past it at 
night, fear lending wings to his feet. 

This was not the little house at Portsea which 
Dickens has described so vividly as the first resi- 



IN THE VERY BEGINNING. 5 

dence of David Copper field; they moved to another 
before little Charles was out of his nurse's arms, 
still in Portsea, though slightly over the boundary- 
line; and in 1816, when the boy was four years 
old, John Dickens moved his family to Chatham. 
In their new home. Number 2, Ordnance Terrace, 
where they lived for five years, were passed the 
only happy hours of childhood the "small queer 
boy " was ever to know. 

There were only three children in the Dickens 
family when they moved to Chatham: Fanny, 
Charles, and little Letitia Mary — a very pretty, 
dainty little girl. Ordnance Terrace was a row 
of houses very much on the order of the row of 
houses in Mile-End Terrace, Portsea, but a little 
roomier, and even more highly respectable from 
the front. There were lots of interesting folk in 
Ordnance Terrace, interesting, that is, from the 
small boy's point of view, for this observing young- 
ster of four tucked away beneath his curly pate 
impressions enough to pervade his books in after 
years. 

On the corner resided his first sweetheart, little 
Lucy Stroughill, a golden-haired Lucy, whose 
birthday he was on several occasions invited to 
celebrate. Here is his own description: 

" I can very well remember being taken out to 
visit some peach-faced creature in a blue sash, and 
shoes to correspond, whose life I supposed to con- 
sist entirely of birthdays. Upon seed-cake, sweet 
2 



6 CHARLES DICKENS. 

wine, and shining presents, that glorified young 
person seemed to me to be exclusively reared. At 
so early a stage of my travels did I assist at the 
anniversary of her nativity (and became enamored 
of her) [he means that he went to her birthday 
party and fell in love with her] that I had not yet 
acquired the recondite knowledge that a birthday 
is the common property of all who are born, but 
supposed it to be a special gift bestowed by the 
favoring heavens on that one distinguished in- 
fant. There was no other company, and we sat 
in a shady bower, under a table, as my better (or 
worse) knowledge leads me to believe, and were 
regaled with saccharine [sugary] substances and 
liquids, until it was time to part." 

This is a child's unfailing idea of a party; just 
something to eat, and a nice snug place to eat it in, 
and the fewer people there — why, the more one 
can eat, of course ; but in addition to this, we must 
not forget that Master Charles was deeply in love 
with the golden curls and the blue sash with the 
shoes to match, and so the feast was a " love- 
feast " flavored with " seed-cake and sweet wine." 

The brother of his divinity, George Stroughill, 
a bright, handsome, manly and somewhat daring 
boy, was a few years older than the small Charles, 
who admired him immensely, with very much the 
same love that David Copperfield had for James 
Steerforth. Indeed, it is pretty certain that 
Dickens had this early friend in mind when he 



IN THE VERY BEGINNING. 7 

created the character of the handsome, reckless 
schoolboy. 

We take for granted, of course, that to most 
of our readers, David Copperfield is a familiar 
friend; for the life of little Charles Dickens is 
so interwoven with the life of little David Copper- 
field that it is hard to tell of the childhood of one 
without referring in some slight way to the child- 
hood of the other. Upon the whole, however, 
Charles Dickens had the easier lot. It is true he 
was a sensitive, delicate child, the victim of neglect, 
but his parents were never cruel to him. Indeed, 
while they lived at Ordnance Terrace, he had noth- 
ing but happiness in his sunny little life. His 
father was a favorite with his employers in the 
Chatham Dockyard, who described him as " a fel- 
low of infinite humor, chatty, lively and agree- 
able." He was brimful of anecdote, and doubtless, 
in describing the men with w^hom he was thrown, 
unconsciously gave Charles material for the won- 
derful characters which were to delight future 
generations. 

The mind of this " small queer boy " was like 
a, sensitive film, and the impressions thrown upon 
it were thrown out again with added brilliance ; 
nothing was ever forgotten, and Ordnance Ter- 
race furnished many characters and localities. In 
some of the early '' Sketches by Boz," that of the 
Old Lady described a Mrs. Newnham, who lived 
at Number 5, on the Terrace, and The Half Pay 



8 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Captain was also a very near neighbor. John 
Dickens at that time could afford to keep a serv- 
ant, whose name, strange to say, was Mary Weller ; 
not so strange, either, when one comes to think of 
it, for the boy loved the strong, capable woman, 
who stood by them through thick and thin, and it 
was quite natural that one of his most lovable char- 
acters, Sam Weller, should have borne the same 
surname. Names meant a great deal to the boy, 
and any name which was especially dear to him 
through association, we find many times repro- 
duced in his books. The name of Lucy, his first 
love, occurs in five of his books, the one best re- 
membered being the charming, golden-haired 
Lucie Manette, the heroine of *' A Tale of Two 
Cities." 

Mary Weller was most probably the nurse to 
whom Baby Charlie took his first steps, and many 
more of the Dickens children were nursed by her. 
She married a shipwright named Thomas Gibson, 
and lived in the neighborhood of Chatham, long 
after the family had moved away. 

Her recollections of the small boy and his golden- 
haired sweetheart are very vivid. As Dickens 
himself says: " When will there come in after life, 
a passion so earnest, generous and true as theirs? 
What, even in its gentlest realities, can have the 
grace and charm that hover round such fairy 
lovers ? " 

Perhaps the golden-haired .Lucy was in his mind 



IN THE VERY BEGINNING. 9 

when describing Little Em'ly, the small David's 
first love. Let us see what feelings David had at 
the advanced age of seven or thereabout: 

"Of course I was in love with little Em'ly. I 
am sure I loved that baby quite as truly, quite as 
tenderly, and with greater purity . . . than 
can enter into the best love of a later time of life 
. . . I am sure my fancy raised up something 
round that blue-eyed mite of a child which ethe- 
realized and made a very angel of her. If, any 
sunny forenoon, she had spread a little pair of wings 
and flown away before my eyes, I don't think I 
should have regarded it as much more than I had 
had reason to expect. 

" We used to walk about that dim old flat at 
Yarmouth, in a loving manner, hours and hours. 
The days sported by us, as if Time had not grown 
up himself yet, but were a child, too, and always 
at play. I told Em'ly I adored her, and that un- 
less she confessed she adored me, I should be 
reduced to the necessity of killing myself with a 
sword. She said she did, and I have no doubt she 
did." 

Now, this thrilling romance was certainly a rem- 
iniscence of those days spent near the angel with 
the '' blue sash and shoes to match," and eyes bluer 
than either. The walks they took together were 
round Chatham, and sometimes they went to the 
Navy Yard to watch the ship-building and the 
rope-making, and many a time they saw the new 



lO CHARLES DICKENS. 

ships floated out upon the Medway, which carried 
them to sea. Sometimes John Dickens took the 
children and their friends for a sail on the Medway. 
on the Navy Pay Yacht, Chatham, when he went 
on the business of the Pay Office. These expedi- 
tions were greatly enjoyed, although there were 
the strictest rules as to behavior while on board 
ship. 

The Dickens household, when they lived at No. 
2, Ordnance Terrace, consisted of Mr. and Mrs. 
Dickens, Fanny, Charles, and Letitia, and Mrs. 
Allen, a widowed aunt, a sister to Mrs. Dickens 
who always Hved with them, and they are described 
as " a most genial, lovable family." 

Mary Weller had charge of the kitchen as well 
as of the children, and she tells us : " Sometimes 
Charles would come downstairs and say to me: 
* Now, Mary, clear the kitchen, we are going to 
have such a game ! ' And then George Stroughill 
would come in with his Magic Lantern, and they 
would sing, recite, and perform parts of plays. 
Fanny and Charles often sang together at this 
time, Fanny accompanying on the pianoforte." 

At eight years of age, Charles Dickens was a 
great reader. Mary Weller says : 

" Little Charles was a terrible boy to read, and 
his custom was to sit with his book in his left 
hand, holding his wrist with his right hand, and 
constantly moving it up and down, and at the same 
time sucking his tongue " — and she adds that he 



IN THE VERY BEGINNING. II 

was " a lively boy, of a good, genial, open disposi- 
tion, and not quarrelsome, as most children are at 
times." 

The River Medway separates Chatham from 
Rochester, the city of cities to the eyes of the small 
boy, for it had a theater, where they gave plays 
and pantomimes — the Theatre Royal it was called 
— and many a good thing Dickens saw there in 
the palmy days at Ordnance Terrace, before John 
Dickens became too poor to give his children pleas- 
ure. Here he saw the famous clown, Grimaldi, 
whose life he afterwards edited, and many great 
and noble dramas; and many great actors and ac- 
tresses stirred ambition in this extremely youthful 
mind. 

His first serious bit of writing was a tragedy 
called '' Misnar, the Sultan of India," conceived 
and written at the age of nine, and he developed 
a taste for acting which stayed with him during 
the rest of his life. As a boy, he did character 
sketches which delighted his companions, and as a 
man, his acting quite equaled the work of many a 
professional. It was in this fashion that Dickens 
loved to entertain his friends, and his memory 
could go back to those earlier days when he and his 
sister Fanny mounted a dining table for a stage, 
at the old Mitre Inn, where their friends, the 
Tribes, lived, and sang all sorts of duets, sea bal- 
lads being the most popular. 

This old Mitre Inn was, and still is, one of the 



12 CHARLES DICKENS. 

landmarks of Chatham. It was also a posting- 
house, that is, a sort of way-station for stage 
coaches, and Mr. Tribe was the landlord and 
owner. The fine old place still remains in his 
family, standing in the midst of beautiful grounds, 
and quite unaltered in any way. 

The Dickens family and the Tribes were very 
intimate, and many a pleasant evening was passed 
either at the Inn or at Ordnance Terrace. Mr. 
Robert Langton, who has given us a most delight- 
ful account of the childhood of our hero, tells us 
of an interesting relic in the possession of the 
Tribe family. ** It is a card of invitation written 
by Charles when between eight and nine years of 
age: 

* Master and Miss Dickens will 

be pleased to have the company of 

Master and Miss Tribe to spend 

the Evening on . . . (date, &c.).' " 

This is the earliest piece of writing of Charles 
Dickens known to be in existence. 

Such a good time as these children did have! 
There were birthday parties, Twelfth Night parties, 
and parties just for no occasion at all; and there 
were never-to-be-forgotten picnics in the hay- 
field opposite the Terrace, a beautiful open stretch 
of country, now swallowed up by the Chatham 
Railway Station. And Charles and his pretty 
sister were often called upon to sing for the amuse- 
ment of the company. 



IN THE VERY BEGINNING. 13 

There is no mention of Charles at school in those 
early years. As a little boy he was quite delicate, 
and that is probably the reason why his mother 
was his first teacher. Certain it is that he learned 
to read at a very early age, and the time that other 
small boys devoted to romping and racing, was 
spent by him in devouring some old forgotten books 
of his father's. He tells us in "David Copper- 
field " : 

" My father had left a small collection of books 
in a little room upstairs, to which I had access ( for 
it adjoined my own), and which nobody else in our 
house ever troubled. From that blessed little 
room Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Humph- 
rey Clinker, Tom Jones, the Vicar of Wakefield, 
Don Quixote, Gil Bias, and Robinson Crusoe came 
out, a glorious host to keep one company." 

These queerly assorted companions did him no 
harm, but helped to feed the boy's fancy, and the 
" Arabian Nights " and the " Tales of the Genii " 
lent added fire to his vivid imagination. Soon 
quite naturally he himself took to writing, the trag- 
edy of " Misnar " being his first production. 

About this time a new influence came into his 
life. His aunt, Mrs. Allen, married Dr. Lamert, 
an army surgeon, and his son James became quite 
intimate with the Dickens family. He had a taste 
for theatricals, and soon discovered Charles's talent 
in that direction. James Lamert's father had 
roomy quarters at the hospital, which gave his son 



14 CHARLES DICKENS. 

plenty of space to plan entertainments and little 
Charles was always there to help. Indeed, it was 
James Lamert himself who first introduced the 
child to the delights of the Theatre Royal at 
Rochester. 

Meanwhile, life at Ordnance Terrace was be- 
coming just a little too difficult. John Dickens, 
the easy, good-natured spendthrift, was beginning 
to feel the pinches of poverty. He had lived be- 
yond his means, and in 1821 he found it necessary 
to move into a much smaller house. There had 
been a new little brother and sister born at No. 2, 
Ordnance Terrace, but both had died, so in the 
House on the Brook, as it was called because of 
a brook which once flowed by it, Charles and his 
two little sisters began their altered lives. Mary 
Weller shook her head over the sad change: 
" There were," she said, " no such juvenile en- 
tertainments at this house as I had seen at the 
Terrace." 

It was a small, cramped house, and the children 
could not help feeling the depressing change. But 
even so, there were compensations ; the house was 
nearer the Dockyard, and the small boy, left to 
roam at will, spent much time at this interesting 
place. As he grew older he grew somewhat 
stronger, and the beautiful Kentish country had 
the greatest fascination for him. It was during 
his tramps about here that he first began to build 
his castles in the air. The alluring hillsides, the 



IN THE VERY BEGINNING. 15 

green valleys, the flash and glimmer of the dis- 
tant Medway as it ran out to sea, the long mys- 
terious stretch of level far away, beyond which lay 
the ocean, and beyond that — the world, all cast 
their influence upon this sensitive, imaginative lit- 
tle boy. 

This was Shakespeare's country (what part of 
England is not?) — and fat old Falstaff's haunts, 
and Gad's Hill, where in the early mornings he 
and his brother vagabonds waylaid and robbed the 
Canterbury pilgrims of their rich offerings, and 
stole the fat purses of the rich traders on their way 
to London, had a special attraction for this special 
small boy, who vowed in his ambitious little soul 
that he would some day be master of the brick 
house built upon its heights. 

Gad's Hill was originally known as " God's 
Hill," but possibly the uncouth tongue of the com- 
mon folk twisted the sound of it, or, even more 
probably, the many deeds of highway robbery were 
scarcely in keeping with the name; at any rate it 
began to be called Gad's Hill, and when little 
Charles had scaled its *' gentle eminence " he 
looked down upon 

Cobham Woods to the right — on the opposite shore 
Laindon Hills in the distance — ten miles off or more ; 
Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind — and before 
You can see almost all the way down to the Nore ; 
. . . so charming a spot — it's rarely one's lot 
To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot. 



l6 CHARLES DICKENS. 

And Dickens never did forget it. Although the 
time was soon to come when he would leave this 
peaceful rural beauty for the smoke and grime of 
dingy London, the memory of it lingered always 
with him and haunted every book he wrote. He 
writes of it in " The Uncommercial Traveller " 
many years after. 

'* I have my eye on a piece of Kentish road bor- 
dered on either side by a wood, and having on one 
hand, between the road-dust and the trees, a skirt- 
ing patch of grass. Wild flowers grow in abun- 
dance on this spot, and it lies high and airy, with 
a distant river stealing away to the ocean -^ like 
a man's life. To gain the milestone here, which 
the moss, primroses, violets, blue-bells and wild 
roses would soon render illegible, but for peering 
travellers pushing them aside with their sticks, you 
must come to a steep hill, come which way you 
may." 

The Falstaff Inn — named after the jolly vaga- 
bond — he also describes, as " a little hostelry 
which no man possessed of a penny was ever known 
to pass in warm weather. Before its entrance are 
certain pleasant trimmed limes; likewise a cool 
well, with so musical a bucket-handle, that its fall 
upon the bucket rim will make a horse prick up 
his ears and neigh upon the droughty road half 
a mile off." 

Gad's Hill was a " Robbing Road," and that was 
probably the reason why little Charles Dickens took 



IN THE VERY BEGINNING. 17 

such a keen delight in rambUng there. Doubtless 
Shakespeare's immortal footpads lurked in the 
woods which bordered the roadway; he would not 
have been surprised to see them rush out upon him 
and demand his money or his life. Poor little 
Charles! He would only have had to turn his 
pockets inside-out, and they would have passed 
him by. Indeed, the contents of all the pockets 
of the entire Dickens family at that time, would 
not have given a single stalwart robber a good 
square meal. 

From an upper window in the side of the little 
House on the Brook, the children could look out 
upon the parish church and the churchyard, and 
at night Charles and Fanny, always chums and 
comrades, loved to gaze upward to the broad ex- 
panse of sky, and count the stars and single out 
their favorites. In " A Child's Dream of a Star," 
written years afterward when his favorite sister 
was dead, Dickens tells us about it in his own beau- 
tiful way: 

" There was one clear, shining star that used to 
come out in the sky before the rest, near the church 
spire above the graves. It was larger and more 
beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and 
every night they watched for it, standing, hand 
in hand, at a window. Whoever saw it first cried 
out, *I see the star!' and often they cried out 
together, knowing so well when it would rise and 
^vhere. So they grew to be such friends with it, 



l8 CHARLES DICKENS. 

that before lying down in their beds, they always 
looked out once again to bid it good night; and 
when they were turning round to sleep, they used 
to say — ' God bless the star ! ' " 

All the hopeless poverty in their bare little room 
was hidden by the kindly darkness. The children 
had their window and their star, and a certain 
golden streak of poetry in their baby hearts, which, 
all unconsciously, helped them always to look above 
and beyond. 

Especially was this the case with the small boy, 
whose trials were about to begin. Somewhere in 
the darkened, dreary, and despairing little soul of 
him, there was a window through which he could 
see shimmering in the distance a far-off star. 
Sometimes it shone clear and bright; sometimes it 
glistened through his tears; but it was there — 
always splendid and always visible. There was 
never a day that he did not think of it ; nor a night 
that he could not see it if he closed his eyes, and 
many a time before he slept, he stretched out his 
tired arms and whispered in the silence : " God 
bless the star ! " 



CHAPTER 11. 

THE REAL DAVID COPPERFIELD. 




HARLES DICKENS was about nine 
years old when he had his first brief 
taste of school life. His mother, with 
her hands full of household cares and 
duties, had little time for anything else, and the 
teaching, upon which the boy had grown to depend, 
had to give place to the more urgent needs of the 
family. In some vague way, the persistent, eager 
young mind resented this; it was beginning to stir 
uneasily, to have longings toward wider wisdom 
than could be found among the old books. 

It was about this time that Mr. William Giles, 
son of Rev. William Giles, the minister of Provi- 
dence Chapel on the Brook, opened a small select 
school, consisting of his own younger brothers and 
sisters, the children of some of the garrison officers, 
and several of the neighbors' children, including 
Charles and his sister Fanny. Mr. Giles was an 
Oxford man, well-educated and a conscientious 
teacher, and from the beginning, the bright appear- 
ance and the quick intelligence of -the boy impressed 
him greatly. He noted with delight the rapid 
progress of his small pupil, and gave him every; 

19 



20 CHARLES DICKENS. 

encouragement. Indeed, there can be no doubt 
that the wonderful English of the great author had 
its roots in Mr. Giles's careful teaching and train- 
ing. 

Mr. Giles's school was one of the few of that 
time which left a wholesome remembrance in 
Dickens's mind. He has drawn a loving picture 
of it in " David Copperfield " in the shape of Dr. 
Strong's School. 

" It was very gravely and decorously ordered," 
he tells us, " and on a sound system ; with an appeal 
in everything to the honor and good faith of the 
boys, and an avowed intention to rely on the pos- 
session of those qualities, unless they proved them- 
selves unworthy of it, which worked wonders." 

Mr. Giles must have commanded great admira- 
tion and respect among his pupils, if David's Dr. 
Strong might serve as a portrait. 

" The Doctor himself was the idol of the whole 
school; and it must have been a badly composed 
school, if he had been anything else, for he was 
the kindest of men; with a simple faith in him that 
might have touched the stone hearts of the very 
urns upon the wall." 

Charles Dickens, as a schoolboy, must have been 
a most attractive youngster. He had a brilliant, 
sensitive face, with long, curly, light hair, which 
fell in ringlets over his shoulders. Boys of that 
period must have looked very much like little old 
men cut short. They wore long and very snug- 



THE REAL DAVID COPPERFIELD. 21 

fitting trousers, below which peeped their Httle 
white-stockinged, slippered feet, and over their 
short, skimp jackets, fell broad Eton collars. The 
boys of Mr. Giles's school wore tall white beaver 
hats, so that in the streets they looked more than 
ever like old men. But they were boys, bless you! 
happy, hearty, romp-loving boys, learning in the 
healthy atmosphere of a good man's influence. 

Mr. Giles was quite noted in the small town and 
its neighborhood, as a fine reader and elocutionist, 
and of course these accomplishments were made 
the most of in the school. That Charles took 
advantage of this rare opportunity for cultivating 
his own talent, goes without saying. 

" Elocution " nowadays is rather laughed at as 
something too high-flown and absurd to be called 
a study, but for the child of a hundred years ago, 
whose very timidity in speaking before his elders 
gave a hesitating squeak to his voice, it was abso- 
lutely necessary to have it trained a little, and de- 
claiming and oratory were the delight of the average 
schoolboy. Charles Dickens excelled in everything 
of this kind, and it was his pleasure to amuse him- 
self and his companions, for his was a genial little 
soul, and despite the fact that he was small and 
somewhat delicate, his quick wit and originality 
made him a leader among his mates. 

The Dickens children knew nothing of the mis- 
fortunes which were crowding down upon their 
father. Being always poor, the knowledge that 
3 



22 CHARLES DICKENS. 

they were poorer did not seem to weigh upon their 
spirits. Even when he was recalled to London 
(1822) they little dreamed of the trials in store 
for them, and John Dickens himself, always happy, 
always hopeful, always ready for something to 
*' turn up," broke up his home on the Brook on 
very short notice, disposed of some of his goods 
and chattels (for it was not so easy then to ship 
furniture from place to place as it is now), and 
the whole family, including a small servant-girl 
from the Chatham workhouse, went by coach to 
London, sending what heavy goods they could not 
conveniently part with, by water. 

The only one left out of this family party was 
Charles. Whether it was his own wish, or that the 
coach was too crowded for even one more very small 
boy, it is hard to say ; at any rate he stayed behind 
with the schoolmaster, and no doubt in his boy- 
fashion, said farewell to all his old, much-loved 
haunts, the Dockyard, the Pay Office, the old 
Rochester Bridge, over which he had hung and 
dreamed so many times, the distant hills, the shim- 
mering Medway. But at last came the day of 
parting, and the small boy, in the white beaver, 
bade a tearful good-by to his friends, and climbed 
into the coach which was to take him to London. 

Many years later, in an article called *' Dull- 
borough Town " (meaning dear old placid, hum- 
drum Chatham) he tells us of this journey: 

" As I left Dullborough in the days when there 



THE REAL DAVID COPPERFIELD. 23 

were no railroads in the land, I left it in a stage- 
coach. Through all the years that have since 
passed, have I ever lost the smell of the damp 
straw in which I was packed — like game — and 
forwarded, carriage paid to the Cross Keys, Wood 
Street, Cheapside, London? There was no other 
inside passenger, and I consumed my sandwiches 
in solitude and dreariness, and it rained hard all 
the way, and I thought life sloppier than I had 
expected to find it. The coach that carried me 
away was melodiously called Timpson's Blue-eyed 
Maid, and belonged to Timpson at the coach office 
up street." 

The name Timpson is the thin disguise of one 
Simpson, the real owner of the real Blue-eyed Maid. 
Another coach going to London from Rochester 
was the Commodore Coach, driven by a well-known 
character, old Cholmeley (or Chumley), *' who 
was entrusted with all the young ladies going to 
town. He made that celebrated speech about 
coaches, when railways came in. * If a railway 
blows up — where are ye? Now, if a coach up- 
sets, there ye are ! ' " which was very comforting 
at any rate. This old coach driver lived later, in 
the person of Tony Weller, the father of Sam, 
who drove Mr. Pickzuick and his friends. 

The heavy, lumbering traveling coach figures 
in many of Dickens's novels. It carried little 
David Copperfield to London, or at least to the 
school near London, and during the holidays an- 



24 CHARLES DICKENS. 

other coach brought him home, and again, when 
his mother died, he left Salem School in a great 
night coach, himself a shivering, frightened child, 
stifling his sobs in the farthest corner. Poor little 
David! he knew very well what he was going to — 
a darkened home where everyone disliked him, 
where he would be pushed and badgered, and at 
last thrust out. But little Charles Dickens knew 
nothing of this kind, though, strange as it may 
seem, he certainly was summoned to London on 
account of a death in his family, and his journey 
could not have been of the happiest. He himself 
says: 

" I was taken home, and there was Debt at 
home, as well as Death [a baby brother], and we 
had a sale there. My own little bed was so super- 
ciliously looked upon by a power unknown to me, 
hazily called * The Trade,' that a brass coal-scuttle, 
a roasting-jack, and a bird cage were obliged to 
be put into it to make a * Lot ' of it, and then it 
went for a song — so I heard mentioned, and I 
wondered what song- — and thought what a dismal 
song it must have been to sing." 

It was, indeed, a sad change for this little coun- 
try boy, coming fresh from green fields and smiling 
hillsides, where the breath of the early spring was 
waking the flowers, to this mean home in Bayham 
Street, Camden Town, where their next-door 
neighbor was a washerwoman, and a Bow Street 
officer lived over the way. It was a poor locality 



THE REAL DAVID COPPERFIELD. 2$ 

with nothing to attract an imaginative, beauty- 
loving child. At night the street was very dark, 
for gas was unknown, and the little twinkling oil 
lamps used in the city did not shed a very brilliant 
light. But at least from this unattractive dismal 
spot, one could see the cupola of St. Paul's looming 
through the smoke of the city, and that was some- 
thing to think about in the little back garret in 
Bayham Street. 

We can fancy him lying awake, lonely and mis- 
erable, thinking over the family troubles and won- 
dering where they would end, wondering, too, if 
he should ever be sent to another school, for he 
longed despairingly to be " taught something any- 
where ! " He felt this all the more keenly because 
his sister Fanny, at this time, was admitted as a 
pupil at the Royal Academy of Music. This was 
a great honor, which the little girl richly deserved, 
and it gave her four years' careful training. But 
it was then that little Charles saw how lightly his 
own education was looked upon by those who 
should have seen to it. 

It was in this house that the boy began all un- 
consciously to study the people around him, and 
to know something of the good qualities which 
shone out among the poor and needy folk, swal- 
lowed up in the murky by-ways of London. Un- 
consciously, indeed, the delicate little chap was 
educating himself in those hard days. Withdrawn 
as he was from any congenial companions in Bay- 



526 CHARLES DICKENS. 

ham Street, he was thrown upon his own resources, 
for his father seemed to forget that he owed his 
eldest son at least an education. His time instead 
was spent in cleaning boots, running errands, and 
looking after the younger children. 

Dickens always spoke of his father with love 
and respect, but there is no doubt that all through 
the hardships of this never- forgotten period, the 
easy good-nature of John Dickens, coupled with 
his empty pocket-book and his ever-hopeful spirit, 
inspired the portrait of Wilkins Micawher, Esq., 
that lovable, ne'er-do-weel, who brightened many 
dark days for little David Copperiield. 

There was some fun to be had even in the 
cramped quarters at Bayham Street, for James 
Lamert, who was lodging with them, built a small 
theater for him, which was a great diversion, and 
the scene of some remarkable acting. Besides, 
there were occasional delightful visits to his god- 
father, Christopher Huffam, who took great pride 
in the comic songs that Master Charles sang so 
well. Dickens himself feared that in those early 
days " he must have been a horrible little nuisance 
to many unoffending grown-up people who were 
called upon to admire him." 

These were bright spots in the darkest period 
of our hero's life. In this straitened household, 
things went from bad to worse, and an awful pos- 
sibility loomed up before the family. If, after a 
certain time, John Dickens could not pay his debts, 



THE REAL DAVID COPPERFIELD. 27 

the bailiffs would arrest him and he would be shut 
up in a debtor's prison. 

There were many such prisons in England, into 
which strong, active men were shoved by their 
creditors, until they could be satisfied, thus depriv- 
ing the poor unfortunates of any means of getting 
out of their trouble, and often keeping them there 
for many years. It was to ward off this final blow 
that Mrs. Dickens decided to move into a better 
house, in a better street, and open a school for 
young ladies. This they accordingly did in 1824, 
renting a house at No. 4, Gower Street. Poor 
lady ! she put a big brass plate on her front door, 
on which was engraved " Mrs. Dickens' Establish- 
ment for Young Ladies," just as poor Mrs. Micazv- 
ber did in " David Copperfield," and David further 
adds : " I never found that any young ladies had 
ever been there ; or that any young lady ever came 
or proposed to come; or that the least preparation 
was ever made to receive any young lady." Though 
the energetic little Charles distributed " at a great 
many doors, a great many circulars," the Young 
Ladies' School was never more than a name; the 
plan simply fell through, and the creditors hurried 
poor John Dickens off to prison, his last words 
being like those of the immortal Mr. Micawher, 
who declared that the sun was set upon him for- 
ever. 

Poor little broken-hearted boy! He thought 
that surely, for the ill-fated house of Dickens, the 



28 CHARLES DICKENS. 

end was not far off. By degrees, they sold every- 
thing of any value, the child himself acting as spe- 
cial agent. All the dear books he had brought 
from Chatham went along with their few valu- 
ables, until at last nothing remained but some bits 
of furniture, and the empty house was shut up — 
save the two parlors where the whole family en- 
camped, including the little servant from the 
Chatham workhouse, who later served as a model 
for some of Dickens's best known characters. 

And now came the saddest experience of his 
whole life — one which he never liked to remem- 
ber, and to which he never alluded in all the bright 
and prosperous years which followed. The family 
was in such dire need that it became necessary for 
Charles to go to work, and James Lamert, through 
the very kindest of motives, procured a situation 
for him in a blacking-warehouse, of which he was 
the chief manager. There were not many posi- 
tions open to a boy so young and so small, and the 
pittance of six or seven shillings a week was thank- 
fully accepted by his parents. 

No one will ever know what the delicate, sensi- 
tive child endured during the months which fol- 
lowed. His place of business was " a crazy, tum- 
ble-down old house, overrun with rats," close by 
the river, and his work, all the long day, was to 
cover the pots of paste-blacking, first with oil paper, 
then with blue paper; to tie them with a string and 
clip them neatly all round, and finally to attach a 



THE REAL DAVID COPPERFIELD. 29 

printed label to each bottle. He felt like a little 
drudge as, hour after hour, he worked away, among 
companions of such a low class that he shrank in 
horror from associating with them. 

Yet, true to his nature, there was nothing this 
boy undertook to do that he did not do with his 
whole soul, and do well. And besides, distasteful 
as his work was, the idea of being the proud pos- 
sessor of so many shillings a week — his own earn- 
ings — made him feel very grown-up and manly. 
He would look in the shop windows as he passed 
along, his fortune jingling in his pockets, and think 
what it might buy. 

But in truth, it was a great help to the family, 
and it was hoarded and spent very carefully each 
week, for they were all learning the hard lesson 
of poverty and privation. It was a new sort of 
school for our small Charles, but he was quite in 
earnest when he once said he was willing " to be 
taught something anywhere," and the blacking- 
warehouse served its purpose in a certain way. 

When writing " David Copperfield " the mem- 
ory of this dark page of his own life overflowed, 
and in Chapter XI, he gives us a description of 
how poor little David was thrust by his stepfather, 
Mr. Murdstone, into a similar position. Even 
David himself wrote of this experience only after 
the passing of many years. He says : " I know 
enough of the world now, to have almost lost the 
capacity of being much surprised by anything; but 



30 CHARLES DICKENS. 

it is a matter of some surprise to me even now, 
that I can have been so easily thrown away at such 
an age. A child of excellent abilities, and with 
strong powers of observation, quick, eager, delicate, 
and soon hurt bodily or mentally, it seems wonder- 
ful to me that nobody should have made any sign 
in my behalf. But none was made; and I became, 
at ten years old, a little laboring hind in the service 
of Murdstone and Grinby." 

In describing their warehouse, he gives the exact 
location of the blacking-warehouse. 

'' It was down in Blackfriars. Modern improve- 
ments have altered the place; but it was the last 
house at the bottom of a narrow street, curving 
down hill to the river, with some stairs at the 
end, where people took boat. It was a crazy old 
house, with a wharf of its own, abutting on the 
water when the tide was in, and on the mud when 
the tide was out, and literally overrun with rats. 
Its paneled rooms, discolored with the dirt and 
smoke of a hundred years, I daresay; its decaying 
floors and staircase; the squeaking and scuffling of 
the old gray rats down in the cellars; and the dirt 
and rottenness of the place . . . are all before 
me, just as they were in the evil hour when I went 
among them for the first time. 

" No words can express the agony of my soul, 
as I sunk into this companionship — compared 
these henceforth everyday associates with those 
of my happier childhood. . . . and felt my 



. THE REAL DAVID COPPERFIELD. 3I 

hopes of growing up to be a learned and distin- 
guished man crushed in my bosom. The deep 
remembrance of the sense I had of being utterly 
without hope now — of the shame I felt in my 
position — of the misery it was to my young heart 
to believe that day by day, what I had learned, and 
thought, and delighted in, and raised my fancy and 
my emulation up by, would pass away from me, 
little by little, never to be brought back any more — 
cannot be written." 

Poor little David — poor little Charles! Yet, 
after all, David was more to be pitied; he had no 
mother nor father — no brothers and sisters — no 
one, indeed, just then, who cared whether he lived 
or died, while the real boy was blessed with more 
family than he could conveniently support on six 
shillings a week, and a fund of never- failing humor 
and drollery, that always managed to get on top 
somehow. 

He describes his companions very much as David 
did, only the boy with " the ragged apron and paper 
cap " was really named Bob Fagin (a name which 
Dickens used afterwards in "Oliver Twist") and 
his other companion was named Paul Green, though 
he was generally called " Poll " Green. 

Both were regular London street-boys, but kind- 
hearted in their rough way, and once when " the 
little gentleman," as they called him, had one of 
his childish attacks, they made a bed for him on 
the floor of the counting-house, and nursed him as 



32 CHARLES DICKENS. 

tenderly as a couple of women. Big Bob Fagin 
would not even let him go home alone that night, 
which was rather unfortunate, as the proud child 
did not want anyone to know that his father was 
in prison, and that he had a little room just out- 
side, in the very shadow of it. 

For by this time Mrs. Dickens found that it 
would save expense to move into the Marshalsea 

— as the prison was called — and share her hus- 
band's quarters until he was able to secure his 
release. So she and all the children but Charles 
and his sister Fanny — who was in the Academy — 
took up their residence in the old prison, while 
Charles had this near-by room, which enabled him 
to take his breakfast with his own family, as soon 
as the prison gates were opened in the mornings. 

A prison sounds like a very terrible spot to most 
of us, who know it only as a place where very 
wicked people are shut up as a punishment. But 
the old-fashioned debtors' prisons — such as the 
Marshalsea, and Fleet Prison, and the King's Bench 

— harbored only those who were unfortunate 
enough not to be able to pay their debts, and they 
were simply locked up by order of their creditors 
until they were ready to settle in some way. 

Charles's first lodging, after the Gower Street 
house was given up, was with a Mrs. Roylance, 
whom the family knew very well, and who sup- 
ported herself by taking in little children to board, 
who — for one reason or another — had no one to 



THE REAL DAVID COPPERFIELD. 33 

take care of them; and it was this same lady whom 
Charles tucked away in that queer storehouse which 
he called his mind, as the original of Mrs. Pipchin, 
the reduced lady in " Dombey and Son," to whose 
house Little Paul and Florence were sent to board. 

This small boy of ten then began housekeeping 
on his own account; he provided himself in the 
morning with a penny cottage loaf and a penny- 
worth of milk, and he always kept another loaf and 
a small piece of cheese in a certain cupboard for 
his supper when he came home, and from Monday 
morning until Saturday night, the little fellow lived 
his life quite by himself, with no glimpse of his 
family until Sunday united them all at the Marshal- 
sea. His lodging was paid for by his father, who 
was in receipt of a small pension from Somerset 
House, for his long service in the Pay Office; his 
clothes were attended to by his mother or Mrs. 
Roylance, but for the rest he was master of him- 
self — body and soul. He could go and come 
when he liked, and it mattered not a whit to any- 
body. Many and many a time — in his loneliness 
— he sobbed himself to sleep, and the wonder of 
it all is how, with such a responsibility, the small 
boy of ten could manage to keep himself, as he 
did, free from the soil and stains of a big city. 

His way to and from his work lay along some 
of the hopeless by-ways o.f London; he peeped into 
alleys where poverty and misery went hand in 
hand ; he saw the river at its darkest and dismallest 



34 CHARLES DICKENS. 

— he worked, indeed, in the dirt and slime of it — 
yet through all, he passed with unspoiled inno- 
cence, though the memory of these things crept 
into every book he wrote ; and there w^as never a 
little boy fashioned by his pen and brain whose 
pathetic little figure did not bear the marks of this 
experience. 

One thing could be remedied, however — the 
absolute separation from his family. His lodg- 
ing-place was too far away to see them more than 
once a week, and so on one memorable Sunday he 
" had it out " with his father, and probably for the 
first time John Dickens knew something of the 
tumult which was stirring the childish heart. Per- 
haps he realized for the first time how awful it is 
to be lonely and desolate when one is only ten years 
old and has to take care of oneself. At any rate 
a lodging was found for him in Lant Street, nearer 
the prison — an attic room, with a pleasing view 
of a timber-yard, but a " paradise " to the boy, who 
could easily get to the Marshalsea for breakfast. 
His landlord — a lame, fat, good-natured old gen- 
tleman — and his quiet old wife, were very kind 
to him; there was a grown-up son besides, and we 
can remember them all better as the Garland family 
in " The Old Curiosity Shop." 

Indeed, no human being ever passed unnoticed 
before those observing young eyes, and as early 
as this he began jotting down little rough sketches 
of people and things, but generally people. These 



THE REAL DAVID COPPERFIELD. 35 

were most probably stuffed in his trousers pockets 
or in some hiding-place known only to childhood — 
and more especially to boyhood — and quite as 
probably forgotten or thrown away, for no record 
of any early bits of childish writing has been handed 
down to us. Indeed, between the ages of ten and 
twelve, business cares were too heavy even to allow 
time for thought. 

His greatest treats in those days were his Satur- 
day nights. He got off early from his work, and 
usually strolled home through a well-known street, 
where there were show-vans at the corner, and 
where for a very small sum he could see the '' Fat- 
pig," the *^ Wild-Indian " and the "Little-lady," 
all dreams of the street-boy of those days. Often 
he would be tempted to buy the stale pastry dis- 
played in the bakers' windows, and there was a 
favorite pudding to be had at a penny a slice — 
very heavy and very flabby — with raisins stuck 
in it, but substantial enough to give him a dinner. 

The boys in the blacking-warehouse had half an 
hour for tea. When little Charles had money 
enough he used to get a half a pint of coffee and 
a shce of bread and butter, and when he had no 
money, he used to go to the Covent-Garden market 
and stare at the pineapples. One coffee-room he 
remembers particularly; it had an oval glass in the 
door, on which was painted " COFFEE-ROOM." 
Inside, with the door shut it read backwards thus, 
" MOOR-EEFFOC," and no matter how often, 



36 CHARLES DICKENS. 

in after years, Dickens saw that same transforma- 
tion, the little boy — lonely and pathetic — munch- 
ing his slice of bread and drinking his coffee, rose 
up before him with startling distinctness. But of 
these things he never spoke in after years ; even to 
his own family his lips were sealed; for he had 
worn the chains of a slave in that year of servitude, 
as surely as if they had hung in iron fastness about 
his small wrists. 

How long he stayed in the warehouse he was 
never quite sure; a year was the outside limit, and 
yet each month had seemed an age in itself, but his 
release came in a sudden way, as these things usually 
happen. His father had most unexpectedly come 
into possession of a small legacy, which enabled 
him to pay his debts and get out of prison. Of 
course there was great rejoicing in the family, and 
even Charles began to look forward again to some- 
thing more than his daily drudgery. He was not 
a boy who said very much; very quick to see and 
feel himself, he gave people credit for feelings they 
never possessed, and as the weeks went by, it was 
clearly to be seen that his position at the warehouse 
was accepted as a matter of course and that there 
was no idea of his giving it up. 

A sort of dumb despair took hold of the child, 
and when he went with the others to see his sister 
Fanny take a prize at the Academy, his poor little 
heart was torn between his pride in her and his 
misery over his own seemingly hopeless lot. It 



THE REAL DAVID COPPERFIELD. 37 

was not envy, for the brother and sister were always 
very close in their love for each other, but the boy, 
too, was ambitious, and tying and labeling black- 
ing-bottles all day long seemed a very poor future 
indeed. 

He grew to be dexterous in handling his work, 
and he and Bob Fagin — who worked near a win- 
dow — always attracted a little crowd of curious 
people. By chance one day, his father came to the 
warehouse, passing through the throng of onlook- 
ers, and something like shame must have touched 
this good-humored, easy-going man. The fact 
that his own son was doing work which he himself 
would have scorned, woke him to a sense of the 
injustice which had been done. Soon after that, 
he wrote James Lamert a letter, no doubt finding 
fault with the position Charles held in the employ 
of one so closely connected with the family, and 
the result was a quarrel and Charles's dismissal 
from the warehouse. He could scarcely believe his 
senses as he walked home that last night. The relief 
was almost painful, and when his father announced 
that he was to go to school, no doubt the small boy 
felt that the end of the world had really come. 

He was not quite twelve when he left the ware- 
house — and still very small for his age — and from 
that time this dreadful experience was blotted from 
all their lives. His father and mother never 
referred to it in any way, and the boy himself 
pushed it far behind him. It gave a touch of re- 



38 CHARLES DICKENS. 

serve to this otherwise genial and sociable young- 
ster; it also gave a manly self-reHance that pulled 
him later through many difficulties; and also a 
strong, set purpose to succeed, while in the back- 
ground of his memory were hidden the shadowy 
figures of his working companions, ready to rise 
out of the mists and become living realities at the 
touch of his magic pen. 

And that pen, too — though probably it was only 
a pencil in the small work-stained hand — had not 
been idle. Life in the Marshalsea Prison — at 
least, what time he spent there — had been more 
interesting than life at the blacking-warehouse, and 
the many queer people he had met there were a 
never-ending source of amusement. The char- 
acter of Wilkins Micawher grew day by day, as the 
quiet little son sat apart and watched his genial, 
happy-go-lucky father, whom he loved ; and in spite 
of much that we may find to laugh at and shake 
our heads over in Mr. Micawher, we, too, cannot 
help loving a character drawn with such gentle 
accuracy. In describing his visits to the Micawhers 
in prison, Dickens hands over his own experience 
to little David, for this is what he says: 

" The only changes I am conscious of are, first, 
that I had grown more shabby ; and secondly, that 
I was now relieved of much of the weight of Mr. 
and Mrs. Micawber's cares, for some relatives or 
friends had engaged to help them at their present 
pass, and they lived more comfortably in the prison 



THE REAL DAVID COPPERFIELD. 39 

than they had Hved for a long time while out of 
it. I used to breakfast with them now, by virtue 
of some arrangement of which I have forgotten 
the details. I forget, too, at what hour the gates 
were opened in the morning, admitting of my going 
in; but I know that I was often up at six o'clock, 
and that my favorite lounging place, in the interval, 
was old London Bridge, where I was wont to sit 
in one of the stone recesses, watching the people 
going by, or to look over the balustrades at the sun 
shining in the water, and lighting up the golden 
flame at the top of the Monument." 

Word for word this is the true history of little 
Charles Dickens at that time, and often his vigils 
on the Bridge were shared by the little maid-of- 
all-work, who was faithful to the family. She, too, 
had lodgings near by, and when they met, Charles 
would amuse himself by weaving wonderful tales of 
the wharves and the Tower, which set the simple 
country girl gaping with amazement. 

In practical everyday life this child of the 
Chatham workhouse had little sharp worldly ways 
which were most amusing, and furnished the boy 
with much food for fancy. She was made use of 
as the years went by, first, as the Orfling in the 
Micawber household, and again in the pathetic 
figure of the Marchioness in " Old Curiosity Shop," 
and many lighter sketches of her flit through the 
great author's books. When they left the prison, 
all its memories lingered with the little fellow, for, 



40 CHARLES DICKENS. 

feeble as had been its glow, the Marshalsea — with 
its swarm of odd people, its dinginess, its thousand 
and one discomforts — had for a brief time shone 
with the light of home to this homeless child. 



CHAPTER III. 

THE LITTLE DICKENSES AT HOME. 




FTER John Dickens's release from 
prison, we hear very little about the 
money troubles of the family. That 
they were poor, goes without saying, but 
the cloud of debt no longer hung over them, and 
what was left of the legacy, together with the pen- 
sion from the Pay Office, was enough to keep them 
above want. 

No doubt the experiences through which they 
had passed had left their trace upon the characters 
of all the little Dickenses. Indeed, how could it 
be otherwise ! Every one of us, from the youngest 
to the oldest, is likely to be touched by the light 
or shadow of our surroundings. But of one thing 
we may be certain — the love of home was a sturdy 
evergreen, flourishing in the heart of every child. 
In their short lives they had known many homes, 
but they all had the happy faculty of considering 
any walls that formed even a temporary shelter, in 
the Hght of a home; and in after years, when the 
great novelist had a thousand themes to choose 
from, he always sang sweetest when he sang of 
home. 

41 



42 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Boys and girls are usually made of the right 
stuff when they have a fondness for home, and 
a home must be a very cheerless place, indeed, that 
cannot hold its flock together. The little we know 
of John Dickens showed him to be of a genial, 
sunny disposition, and though the raising of a large 
family and the straitened means of the household 
kept Mrs. Dickens very much in the background, 
she must have been a woman blessed with the gift 
of home-making. 

For a short time after the gates of the Marshal- 
sea had opened to let them out, the whole family 
lodged with Mrs. Roylance until they could find 
some suitable place ; from there they went to Hamp- 
stead, where they took a house, but this must have 
proved too expensive, for finally — in 1825 — they 
settled in a cheap part of London, called Somer's 
Town. The house was very small and poor-look- 
ing, but in spite of many drawbacks, they made 
a home of it for four years, during which time 
many changes marked the lives of the little 
Dickenses. 

To begin with, Charles was sent to school. What 
this meant to the boy, no one knew; but unfor- 
tunately this school did not prove all that his family 
had pictured. It was called Wellington House 
Academy, and was kept by one William Jones. It 
was one of those places where study was forced 
by means of the ferule; where the master was a 
man of no learning whatever, leaving the hard 



THE LITTLE DICKENSES AT HOME. 43 

work of teaching to one of the ushers, who was 
supposed to know everything. 

In a quaint little reminiscence called " Our 
School," Dickens gives us a vivid description of 
William Jones, the Master. 

*' The only branches of education," he tells us, 
" with which he had the least acquaintance, were 
ruling and corporally punishing. He was always 
ruling ciphering-books with a bloated mahogany 
ruler, or smiting the palms of offenders, with the 
same diabolical instrument. . . . 

" We were old enough to be put into * Virgil ' 
when we went there, and to get Prizes for a variety 
of polishing on which the rust has long accumu- 
lated. It was a School of some celebrity in its 
neighborhood — nobody could have said why — 
and we had the honor to attain and hold the emi- 
nent position of first boy." 

As Mr. Creakle of Salem School in " David 
Copperfield," we perhaps get even a better idea 
of Mr. Jones's harshness and absolute cruelty in 
dealing with the boys. Tweaking their ears was 
a favorite pastime, which poor little David had to 
endure constantly. 

Even in school, our small Charles used his young 
observant eyes to great advantage; the boys, who 
were his mates, impressed him greatly, not so much 
by their prowess, as by their peculiarities, which 
were stowed away for future use in future books, 
for the Dickens schoolboy is a study in itself, and 



44 CHARLES DICKENS. 

he has painted so many and such real ones that we 
feel quite sure that he knew them all. 

" The principal currency of Our School was 
slate-pencil. It had some inexplicable value, that 
was never ascertained, never reduced to a standard. 
To have a great hoard of it was somehow to be 
rich. We used to bestow it in charity, and confer 
it as a precious boon upon our chosen friends. 
When the holidays were coming, contributions were 
solicited for certain boys whose relatives were in 
India. . . /' 

These boys were called " Holiday-stoppers '' 
because, having no homes to go to during the holi- 
days, they stopped in school; so the sympathetic 
boys who had homes bestowed tokens of sympathy 
upon the homeless ones — in the shape of slate- 
pencils. 

Not to have a home to frolic in at Christmas 
time, would have been a dread calamity to anyone 
named Dickens; and that is why the poor little 
" Holiday-stoppers " appealed so to Charles — for 
no matter how poor they were, the Christmas-Tree 
was planted wherever the little Dickenses chanced 
to be. Sometimes the gifts were mere pretenses, 
but there was the glamour of the Tree always, and 
half a dozen vivid imaginations to make something 
out of nothing. 

By this time another little boy had been added 
to the family group — the youngest and last — and 
specially notable on account of his name, Augustus, 



THE LITTLE DICKENSES AT HOME. 45 

which his older brother laughingly set aside — and 
called him Moses instead. Still in a joking way he 
often pronounced it through his nose — Boses — 
this he shortened into B02, which nickname clung 
to the youngster until several years later, when the 
budding author took it for his own pen-name, and 
the fame of " Boz " grew, before the fame of Dick- 
ens was thought of. 

Now with six children — the oldest not quite 
sixteen — home was a most interesting spot. There 
was always something going on; there was always 
chatter or laughter, mischief or fun, and especially 
where there was mischief there beyond a doubt was 
the master hand of Charles himself, for he was 
bubbling over with spirits, in those early days of 
release from the blacking-warehouse, and the wild 
pranks he played were too many to be counted. 

All holidays were festivals to these children, and 
when there were no holidays, there was always the 
toy theatre. This was a never-ending source of 
amusement, for it looked quite like the real thing, 
even to the paper ladies in the boxes. The actors 
connected with this wonderful triumph of paste 
and glue and water-colors were the most talented 
of puppets, whose legs and arms worked by wire 
or string, and they certainly did perform queer 
antics at the most exciting moments. The plays 
themselves, " The Miller and his Men " and " Eliza- 
beth, the Exile of Siberia " and many others with 
the same high-sounding titles, were always written 



46 CHARLES DICKENS. 

by Charles himself, who, even at the advanced age 
of thirteen, was never at a loss for a plot or a situ- 
ation. 

Christmas marked the height of happiness in 
the Dickens household. There was always the 
Tree, as early as Charles could remember, and his 
childish fancy of course painted that home Christ- 
mas-Tree in glowing colors. Here is what he tells 
us about the very earliest Christmas-Tree : 

" Straight, in the middle of the room, cramped 
in the freedom of its growth by no encircling walls 
or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises ; and, 
looking up into the dreamy brightness of its top — 
for I observe in this tree the singular property that 
it appears to grow downward towards the earth — 
I look into my youngest Christmas recollections." 

He tells us of the singular toys of his day — 
" the Tumbler, with his hands in his pockets, who 
wouldn't lie down, but whenever he was put up on 
the floor, persisted in rolling his fat body about, 
until he rolled himself still, and brought those 
lobster eyes of his to bear upon me " — which 
frightened the small child into a nervous laugh. 

Then there was a certain fat old Counselor in 
a box with a spring, who popped out at one with 
a " gobble-you-up " expression that haunted one's 
dreams ; and a Mask most terrible to look at. The 
imaginative child had a horror of this Mask. 

" Nothing reconciled me to it," he wrote. '' No 
drummers from whom proceeded a melancholy 



THE LITTLE DICKENSES AT HOME. 47 

chirping on the turning of a handle; no regiment of 
soldiers with a mute band, taken out of a box and 
fitted, one by one, upon a stiff and lazy little set 
of lazy tongs; no old woman made of wires and 
a brown paper composition, cutting up pie for two 
small children, could give me a permanent comfort 
for a long time. Nor was it any satisfaction to be 
shown the Mask and see that it was made of paper, 
or to have it locked up, and be assured that no one 
wore it. The mere recollection of that fixed face, 
the mere knowledge of its existence anywhere, was 
sufficient to wake me in the night — all perspira- 
tion and horror — with ' Oh, I know it's coming — 
Oh, the Mask!'" 

He liked the dear old donkey, with the panniers 
and a coat of real hair; and the great black horse 
with red nostrils and unusual red spots all over him, 
upon whose willing back he could easily climb and 
gallop away to the Land of Nowhere. 

The Dickens family certainly made much of 
Christmas and delighted in giving presents. We 
are told about a wonderful doll's house " of which 
I was not the proprietor, but where I visited. I 
don't admire the Houses of Parliament half so 
much as that stone-fronted mansion, with real glass 
w^indows, and door-steps and a real balcony — 
greener than I ever see now, except at watering- 
places; and even they afford but a poor imitation." 

Boy-like, he was particularly attracted by the 
kitchen of this elegant mansion, where a tin man- 



48 CHARLES DICKENS. 

cook was forever frying two fish on the '* make- 
beHeve " stove. And he remembered vividly a cer- 
tain tea-party, where he struck the fashionable com- 
pany with consternation, by swallowing a little pewter 
tea-spoon which he had dissolved in the hot tea. 

Those were jolly days of Christmas trees, before 
hardships came upon the little Dickenses, but we 
must not think that the holidays lost their zest 
because the family was poorer. Even the Marshal- 
sea had its celebrations — and where there was a 
peep-hole where fun could escape, the little Dick- 
enses caught it. 

There was always music and singing and acting 
to enliven them. Fanny was fast becoming an 
accomplished young musician, and Charles always 
had a decided taste for singing. While at Well- 
ington House Academy he took a few violin lessons, 
though, not being a genius in that direction, he 
made no progress and soon gave it up. But he 
became quite famous in the literary line; his first 
bit of editorial work was called " Our Newspaper," 
done jointly with another boy, and written on 
scraps of copy-book paper. They circulated it on 
payment of marbles and pieces of slate pencil. 

" This paper," writes the other boy, " used to 
contain sundry bits of boyish fun — the following 
I recollect — 

" * Lost Out of a gentleman's waistcoat pocket 
an acre of land; the finder shall be 
rewarded on restoring the same. 



THE LITTLE DICKENSES AT HOME. 49 

" ' Lost By a boy with a long red nose and grey 
eyes, a very bad temper. Whoever 
has found the same may keep it, as the 
owner is better without it.' " 

There was another boy named Beverley, after- 
wards a great scene-painter, who practiced his bud- 
ding art on various school plays written by Charles. 
" There can be no doubt," we are told, " that under 
the joint management of two such boys as Dickens 
and Beverley, these theatrical performances must 
have been considerably in advance of the ordinary 
juvenile theatricals to be then found in schools." 
Naturally these plays were often performed at 
home, and the genial, fun-loving boy brought his 
friends also into the home circle when he could. 

Unlike most geniuses, Charles Dickens, with the 
exception of certain majestic blank verse to be 
found in his boyish efforts at drama, spent little 
time in verse making. Most children — gifted in 
his way — find some early expression in rhyme, 
which is often real, though somewhat crude poetry, 
but little of that sort of thing has come down to us 
from the pen of the great novelist. The secret 
sketches he made of the people with whom he came 
in daily contact, were always clever bits of prose 
with a dash of vigorous color here and there. A bit 
of doggerel once in a while — the outcome of some 
boyish joke — he might have indulged in, but they 
fluttered out of sight along with the pieces of paper 
on which they were scribbled. 



50 CHARLES DICKENS. 

The small lad, small in spite of his teens, was 
studying people instead of poetry, and " learning 
all the time," his biographer tells us, though the 
actual knowledge he obtained from Wellington 
House Academy was neither very extensive nor 
very wholesome. He may not have known it, but 
the year's experience at the blacking-warehouse did 
more to set him on his literary way than all the 
limited schooling of his life. Added to this, as 
we know, was his love of home, which crept into 
all the best of his novels and his stories. 

We know, too, that home to the Dickens chil- 
dren did not always mean a place of beauty and of 
comfort, it did not always mean the same place, 
for no family moved quite as often as they did, 
unless it was the homeless poor on the London 
streets. Yet they were never so happy as when all 
together under the same roof, and we have seen 
how miserable poor little Charles w^as, when the 
Marshalsea gates shut him out from his family. 

Of all the children, he and Fanny had known 
better times; they could remember the Chatham 
days of comparative peace and plenty. Charles in 
particular could amuse the younger ones with anec- 
dotes of the quaint, sleepy old place and its people, 
and being a good mimic, there is no doubt that he 
regaled the little Dickenses w^ith performances 
which would have done him credit before a larger 
audience. 

This small boy had his own original ideas of 



THE LITTLE DICKENSES AT HOME. 5^ 

what a home should be ; a home with a bright fire, 
a cheery hearth, and a kettle on the hob — a good 
old-fashioned home, where love was not afraid of 
poverty, and many a home he has drawn for us — 
where we love to linger. 

In " The Cricket on the Hearth " we get the very 
brightest picture. The wild night outside — for- 
gotten by the coziness within — the singing of the 
Kettle — the chirping of the Cricket — the plump 
comeliness of little Mrs. Dot — all waiting for the 
big Carrier, with frosted eyebrows and icicles hang- 
ing from his clothes, to burst in and add the finish- 
ing touch. The cricket chirping on the family 
hearth was considered a good omen. Dot thought 
so, and said as much to her big husband : 

" ' This has been a happy home, John ; and I love 
the Cricket for its sake ! ' 

" ' Why so do I then ' — said the Carrier, ' so do 
I, Dot!' 

" ' I love it for the many times I've heard it and 
the many thoughts its harmless music has given me. 
Sometimes in the twilight, when I have felt a little 
solitary and down-hearted, before baby was here 
to keep me company and make the house gay 
. . . its Chirp, Chirp, Chirp, upon the hearth 
has seemed to tell me of another little voice, so 
sweet, so very dear to me, before whose coming 
sound my trouble vanished like a dream. And 
when I used to fear — I did fear once, John, I was 
very young you know — that ours might prove an 



52 CHARLES DICKENS. 

ill-assorted marriage — I hting such a child, and 
you more like my guardian than my husband; 
. . . its Chirp, Chirp, Chirp, has cheered me up 
again, and filled me with new trust and confidence. 
I was thinking of these things to-night, dear, when 
I was expecting you, and I love the Cricket for 
their sake.' " 

We cannot help wondering if the little Dickenses 
had a Cricket on their hearth. They had a Cricket 
without a doubt, for their older brother's sunny 
humor pervaded the household. His was a nature 
singularly young always, and forgiving. As the 
one dark year of his life sank farther and farther 
out of sight, his real boyishness rose to the top. 
He became ringleader in many harmless pranks — ■ 
and was the inventor of a wonderful language 
known only to himself and his intimates; and the 
toy theater served as a stage setting for the many 
attempted dramas and melodramas which were born 
in his active brain just then. 

There is little to record of Dickens at this time, 
beyond the fanciful biography of David Copper- 
Held. His was a restless, inquiring mind; the 
quick, active movements — full of unstudied grace 
— the bright eyes and brighter speeches, made a 
great impression upon all with whom he came in 
contact, and sometimes the wild spirit of the boy 
burst forth, and the little Dickenses looked on and 
wondered. 

Two years of schooling were quite enough for 



THE LITTLE DICKENSES AT HOME. 53 

our untamed Charles. He went long enough to 
see that a mere room with benches and desks, and 
a master who used his mahogany ruler with such 
deadly effect, was not a place where he was likely 
to learn anything more than he knew already. 

There is a kindly silence on the subject, but it 
is very much to be feared, from hints dropped in 
the clever articles of later years, that Master 
Charles's spirit of mischief often got him into hot 
water at the Wellington House Academy. Once 
— if we can believe the thinly-veiled disguise in 
" Our School '' — he wrote a tragedy in blank verse 
ridiculing one of the parlor boarders. 

"This production," he tells us, "was received 
with great favor and was twice performed with 
closed doors in the dining-room. But it got wind 
and was seized as libelous, and brought the unlucky 
poet into severe affliction," which meant in other 
words, a good sound thrashing. 

" Our School," he further adds, " was remark- 
able for white mice. Red-polls, linnets, and even 
canaries were kept in desks, drawers, hat-boxes and 
other strange refuges for birds; but white mice 
were the favorite stock. The boys trained the mice, 
much better than the masters trained the boys. We 
recall one white mouse, who lived in the cover 
of a Latin dictionary, who ran up ladders, drew 
Roman chariots, shouldered muskets, turned 
wheels, and even made a very creditable appear- 
ance on the stage, as the Dog of Montargis. He 
5 



54 CHARLES DICKENS. 

might have achieved greater things, but for having 
the misfortune to mistake his way in a triumphal 
procession to the Capitol, when he fell into a deep 
inkstand and was dyed black and drowned." 

This special mouse belonged to a company of 
boys who showed much ingenuity and clever en- 
gineering in planning their houses, and many of 
them rose afterwards to prominent places as en- 
gineers in larger fields. Mr. Jones little thought — 
as he sat all the day ruling ciphering-books and 
feruling small boys — that a pair of bright eyes 
was watching every motion of the large, cruel 
hands, and the poor head usher, " who knew every- 
thing," little thought that some day he would get 
into a famous book and become in some indirect 
way the instrument for mending the fortunes of 
many a poor underpaid usher like himself. 

It was in the pathetic character of Mr. Mell, the 
poor usher at Salem School in " David Copper- 
field," that we first see him, but he flits through 
many books in many different guises — always poor 
and proud, ill-fed, ill-clad, and ill-paid. 

Yes, all through this, the last real schooling of 
his life, little Charles was studying men instead 
of mathematics. He never made much of a mark 
at school, though he was a great favorite with the 
boys, whose thirst for hearing stories he could 
thoroughly satisfy. 

Nothing the small boy loved so well as to hold 
spell-bound an audience of active, restless school- 



THE LITTLE DICKENSES AT HOME. 55 

boys, and all of the old half- forgotten tales which 
he had absorbed in happy days at Chatham, were 
retold in his own peculiar way with many additions 
most likely, which were none the worse for the 
story. The " Arabian Nights " were also revived 
among the children at home, and many a thrill 
went through the ranks of the little Dickenses, in 
listening to these tales of wonder, for the boy had 
all the gifts of the good story-teller, to which was 
added a great deal of dramatic fire, which put new 
life into every tale he told. 

He had grown considerably during those two 
years of schooling, though he was still below the 
average height of a boy of fourteen; but he had 
outgrown all his childish ailments, and had devel- 
oped into an active, sturdy fellow, fond of out- 
of-door sports and athletics, but fondest of all of 
poking about in the dim and grimy by-ways of 
London, which he had grown to know only too 
well, in the old dark days. 

He loved the River and the shipping — he loved 
the Bridge over which he had leaned so many times 

— he loved the pungent odor of the water — but 
most of all he loved the people who haunted such 
places — the poor of London; the people, shabby, 
ill-clothed, uncared-for, who hurried by him in the 
streets — the women with shawls over their heads 

— the slouching men with their caps drawn over 
their eyes — the very children, looking like shriveled 
old men and women. 



56 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Had anyone questioned him, he would not have 
been able to explain — boy as he was — the fasci- 
nation that the streets of London held for him. 
In his many walks about the city he was never 
conscious of any purpose. Yet David Copper field, 
in describing his walks, says : " I looked at nothing 
that I know of, but I saw everything,'' and this 
was precisely the case with Charles Dickens, as it 
is with all quick and observant youngsters. 

But the interest of this boy was sharpened by 
many a prick of memory; by the memory of the 
time when a miserable, overworked little soul had 
trudged these streets as in a dream, fighting a bitter 
battle, and every time the small and shabby figure 
of a boy appeared, memory came also and stalked 
beside it. 

He grew to know the " lingo ''of the streets as 
well as any street-boy, and he mimicked the cockney 
accent to perfection, much to the amusement of all 
who heard him. But they were only amused ; they 
never knew that, beneath all the boyish flippancy, 
a something very tender, very human, was stirring 
in its sleep — a great absorbing love of the poor — 
sympathy with their joys and sorrows — a sincere 
wish to help them — to make the world hear their 
cry — a wish to tell people of the life that went 
on from day to day, year to year, on the streets 
or in their meager homes, the tragedy and the 
comedy of it all. 

And this, the boy with the bright, quick-seeing 



THE LITTLE DICKENSES AT HOME. 5/ 

eyes, was studying much harder than he did Latin 
and History at the Wellington House Academy, and 
this was in his mind when he was cracking jokes 
among his mates, or telling stories to the little 
Dickenses, around their own home fire. Fantastic, 
shuddering tales they often were, with pictures 
drawn from the very heart of the blaze. 

He did not know what the future held for him 
when he left school, or, indeed, that it held any- 
thing beyond the position " as office boy in an attor- 
ney's firm," as the old song has it. For work was 
necessary in the Dickens family, and Charles had 
had a long holiday. The other boys, too, needed 
their " bit of schooling,'' so he must give way. 

College was not even hinted at — even the boy 
himself had neither such hope nor ambition. Be- 
sides, the old home tie still held him; he did not 
mind laboring by day, with the prospect of a family 
reunion when work was over. So, still a little under 
size, though able-bodied and trustworthy, Charles 
Dickens set forth to seek his fortune in the office 
of a Mr. Molloy, a solicitor, little dreaming, as he 
tapped modestly at the door, that fame stepped 
quietly with him over the threshold. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE FIRST START IN LIFE. 




HARLES DICKENS was somewhere 
between fourteen and fifteen years old 
when he began at the bottom of the lad- 
der as office boy to Mr. MoUoy, the 
solicitor, and there was not much of incident in 
his short career there. The office boys were just 
important enough in their own estimation to have 
the utmost contempt for the schoolboy ranks which 
supplied most of the business recruits. These boys 
put on a mannish swagger and *' clubbed " together 
for their suppers, like the clerks above them, and 
imagined that they "saw life" — poor little half- 
fledged chaps ! Funny little fellows, too, they must 
have been (something like the numerous " buttons " 
that cross our path to-day), with their quick 
tongues, their sharp eyes, and a certain surprising 
agility, which made them invaluable for running 
errands in those telephoneless days. 

The office boy of Dickens's day was certainly 
busy from morning till night. 

He washed the windows and he swept the floor, 
And he polished up the handle of the big front door. 

58 



THE FIRST START IN LIFE. $9 

In short, he saw that the musty, fusty old offices 
where most lawyers herded were at least brushed 
up to something like the semblance of order. 

Dickens describes these offices so graphically in 
his various books that we can see the very cobwebs 
hanging from the ceilings. In " Pickwick," his 
earliest book, he describes a whole nest of them: 

" Scattered about in various holes and corners 
of the Temple, are certain dark and dirty cham- 
bers, in and out of which, all the morning in Vaca- 
tion, and half the evening in Term-time, there may 
be seen, constantly hurrying, with bundles of papers 
under their arms, and protruding from their pock- 
ets, an almost uninterrupted succession of Lawyers' 
Clerks. . . . 

" These sequestered nooks are the public offices 
of the legal profession. . . . They are, for 
the most part, low-roofed, moldy rooms, where 
innumerable rolls of parchment, which have been 
perspiring in secret for the last century, send forth 
an agreeable odor, which is mingled by day with 
the scent of the dry-rot, and by night with the 
various exhalations which arise from damp cloaks, 
festering umbrellas, and the coarsest tallow can- 
dles." 

Even in smoky, foggy London, the character of 
the lawyer's office has changed a great deal, and the 
office boy's duties are not so heavy as in 1827. 
But when Charles Dickens was a boy he had not 
only to scrub the floor, but to carry his own water 



6o CHARLES IDICKENS. 

from the pump, which was no easy task if it chanced 
to be winter and there was more than one bucketful 
needed for the job. But everything this boy did, 
he did well, and there is little doubt that Mr. Mol- 
loy's floors were pretty thoroughly scrubbed during 
the short time that he was there, for in May, 1827, 
he became a regular clerk in the office of Messrs. 
Ellis and Blackmore, attorneys, of Gray's Inn, 
where he stayed for a year and a half. 

His father and mother fondly believed that his 
position in life was now assured. There were 
many grades of clerks in the practice of the law, 
and what better apprenticeship could the boy have 
than in this daily association with lawyers and their 
methods! What better, indeed, could young Dick- 
ens have had, though not along the lines his parents 
had hoped for! He was studying, to be sure, but 
what he learned was certainly not to be found in 
the dusty law-books! 

Had our Charles been a different sort of a boy, 
a lawyer's office would have been the very worst 
place he could have chosen for a start in life. Here 
he came in contact with every side of the law. 
He knew the clever lawyer, the tricky lawyer, the 
rising lawyer ; he knew the lawyer with brains, and 
the lawyer without, and he has had something to 
say about them in every book he has written — 
from the first to the last. 

It was rather unusual to be a lawyer's clerk at 
the age of fifteen, but this was an unusual boy, he 



THE FIRST START IN LIFE. 6l 

could be trusted with very special and particular 
messages, and he knew his London, from one end 
of the vast city to the other, as probably few people 
knew it, and this made him useful in many round- 
about ways known only to lawyers and their clients. 

This bright-eyed youngster, seemingly absorbed 
in the duties of a junior clerk, was in reality study- 
ing the characters that passed as it were under his 
very nose; he was studying the law on every side 
and in every light ; boy as he was, he was quick to 
discover the joke of it — the muddle of it all — and 
all the serious things connected with it. 

At Ellis and Blackmore's the clerks kept an ac- 
count book, where the office expenses were regu- 
larly entered. His own salary was ten shillings 
a week at first, which was increased to fifteen be- 
fore he left. The clerks took turns in entering 
the accounts, and Dickens's handwriting came 
from January to March, 1828, while his autograph 
was on the fly-leaf, and here and there through 
the book occurred such names as Weller, Mrs. 
Bardell, Corney, Rudge, and Newman Knott, all 
of whom, with some slight changes, are very fa- 
miliar characters in Dickens's own books — names 
which, as we see, he calmly took, as he probably 
took many little peculiarities along with them. 

Always of a social nature, Dickens readily made 
friends among the clerks. His first friend, 
Thomas Mitton, proved to be such a congenial 
one that the intercourse was kept up for many 



62 CHARLES DICKENS. 

years, and at Ellis and Blackmore's he found a 
most entertaining companion in a young man 
named Potter, a fellow clerk, though somewhat 
beyond him in age and official position. They 
often went to the theaters as both were fond of 
that sort of amusement, and on more than one oc- 
casion they actually appeared themselves, in small 
parts. Of course Dickens used him as a character 
in two of his " Sketches by Boz," and there was 
something about him which faintly suggested the 
rollicking, good-natured rascal, Alfred Jingle in 
" Pickwick." 

In one of the *' Sketches " he describes Mr. 
Thomas Potter, not even attempting to disguise 
his name: 

" Mr. Thomas Potter, then, was a clerk in the 
city, and Mr. Robert Smithers [a caricature of 
himself perhaps] was a ditto in the same; their 
incomes were limited, but their friendship was 
unbounded. They lived in the same street, walked 
into town every morning at the same hour, dined 
at the same slap-bang every day, and reveled in 
each other's company every night. They were 
knit together by the closest ties of intimacy and 
friendship, or, as Mr. Thomas Potter touchingly 
observed, they were ' thick and thin pals, and noth- 
ing but it.' There was a spice of romance in Mr. 
Smithers' disposition, a ray of poetry, a gleam of 
misery, a sort of consciousness of — he didn't ex- 
actly know what, coming across him — he didn't 



THE FIRST START IN LIFE. 63 

precisely know why — which stood out in fine reUef 
against the off-hand, daring manner which dis- 
tinguished Mr. Potter in an eminent degree." 

In another " Sketch " he is described as Jones, 
the barrister's clerk — "capital company — full of 
anecdote ! " 

Indeed, in those days, young Charles had all 
the admiration for Potter that a small boy usually 
has for a big one, and yet — though in a mild way 
he followed the great creature — he also captured 
him, and not only popped him into his " Sketches," 
but turned and twisted and distorted him into a 
dozen different lawyers' clerks in different lawyers' 
offices. 

Ah ! those law offices ! how he knew them — 
from the Doctors Commons to the office of the 
smallest solicitor among the Inns, as most of the 
lawyers' offices were called. It was not so very 
many years after he gave up all thoughts of being 
a lawyer that he began his " Sketches," and one of 
these, called " Doctors Commons," gives a very 
good idea of what that branch of the law really 
was, with a hearty laugh at the fat Judge and the 
be-wigged or be-robed advocates or proctors. The 
English law in those days was very pompous, very 
consequential, and in many cases very stupid, and 
Charles Dickens found this out in the nick of time, 
to save himself from becoming one of the flock. 

He never forgot the many little scenes which 
passed before him in Ellis and Blackmore's offices, 



64 CHARLES DICKENS. 

and Mr. Blackmore himself said : " I am much 
mistaken if some of his characters had not their 
originals in persons I well remember," and if the 
list of names in the office account-book can be re- 
lied upon those must have been the very people. 

" During these eighteen months," writes Mr. 
Langton, one of his numerous biographers, 
" Charles Dickens must have seen a great deal of 
the ordinary routine of a lawyer's office, and ac- 
cordingly we have, throughout his works, lawyers 
of almost every possible shade and variety, from 
Mr, Sampson Brass to Mr. Tulkinghorn, and from 
Solomon Pell to Mr. Grewgious. 

" Of firms of solicitors besides those introduced 
into the tales, such as Snitchey and Craggs, Dod- 
son and Fogg, Kenge and Carboys, and others, are 
some highly characteristic names of firms incident- 
ally mentioned in * Pickwick,' where at Sergeants' 
Inn they were called out ... in tenor and 
bass voices — ' Sniggle and Blink, Parkin and Snob, 
Stumpy and Deacon.' " 

Dickens had a happy knack of fitting his names 
to his characters, and that is the reason why one 
is apt to recall the characters from his books with 
such readiness. We know, for instance, what kind 
of lawyers composed the firm of Dodson and Fogg, 
or Sniggle and Blink, or Parkin and Snob. 
Sampson Brass we know was a close-fisted, money- 
loving swindler, and Dick Swivellerj much as we 
admire his many good traits, suggests at once a 



THE FIRST START IN LIFE. 65 

great fondness for beer, and a general seediness 
that often goes side by side with the underpaid 
lawyer's clerk. One of the best named characters 
is that of the office-boy of Mr. Mortimer Light- 
wood in " Our Mutual Friend.'' Here is an ex- 
cellent picture of Young Blight: 

"Whosoever had gone out of Fleet Street into 
the Temple at the date of this history, and had 
wandered disconsolate about the Temple until he 
had stumbled on a dismal churchyard, and had 
looked up at the dismal windows commanding that 
churchyard, until at the most dismal window of 
all he saw a most dismal boy, would in him have 
beheld at one grand comprehensive swoop of the 
eye, the managing clerk, common-law clerk, con- 
veyancing clerk, chancery clerk, every refinement 
and department of clerk of Mr. Mortimer Light- 
wood, erstwhile called in the newspapers, eminent 
solicitor." 

By this, we know, without further explanation, 
that Mr. Mortimer Lightwood did a very small 
law business, and that Young Blight had a most 
appropriate name. 

But names as yet meant nothing to Charles 
Dickens, beyond some happy thought which they 
might have suggested. He was growing up, and 
the by-ways of the law did not suit him at all. He 
began to have an ardent longing to get into print 
somehow, but there were very few means of get- 
ing there — that was the trouble. 



(:^ CHARLES DICKENS. 

About this time his father became a reporter 
for the Morning Herald, a most interesting oc- 
cupation, for this special branch of reporting was 
devoted to parHamentary work, and the boy con- 
ceived a sudden desire to follow in his father's 
footsteps. But to become a reporter was no easy 
matter, especially as this poor little lawyer's clerk 
had his hands full all day, and a reporter's work 
consisted first and foremost of a complete and 
thorough knowledge of shorthand. 

Once having made up his mind that he wanted 
to do a thing, our friend Charles was pretty apt to 
do it. He made up his mind to leave the law 
to its spiders and its cobwebs, to come out from 
the dark corners and see the light of day among 
people — always among people — but he could not 
sacrifice his fifteen shillings a week for anything 
less certain. This young fellow, though not quite 
seventeen, knew only too well the value of even 
a little money, and anything he wished to do in 
the way of fitting himself for any other field had 
to be done either late at night while others slept, 
or in the early dawn before their own noisy little 
household was astir. 

He said nothing to anyone, he bought a book 
on shorthand, and set to work in right good ear- 
nest. He had a quick mind and a retentive memory, 
and never spared himself in any task which he 
thought worth doing. He gives a humorous ac- 
count of his struggles in " David Copperfield," for 



THE FIRST START IN LIFE. ^7 

that young gentleman went through exactly the 
same experience. 

" * I'll buy a book (said David) with a good 
scheme of this art in it; I'll work at it at the 
Commons where I haven't half enough to do; 
I'll take down the speeches in our court for prac- 
tice.' " 

This was bravely spoken by our young hero, 
David, just then in the first throes of his passion 
for Dora, the little fairy daughter of his employer, 
Mr. Spenlow. David consulted his friend, Tommy 
Tr addles, one of his old school-mates from the 
far-away Salem School, and the result was that 
Traddles made inquiries for his friend, as to the 
requirements of a parliamentary reporter. 

" Traddles now informed me . . . that 
the mere mechanical acquisition necessary . . . 
for thorough excellence in it, that is to say, a per- 
fect and entire command of the mystery of short- 
hand writing and reading, was about equal in diffi- 
culty to the mastery of six languages, and that it 
might perhaps be attained by dint of perseverance 
in the course of a few years. Traddles reasonably 
supposed that this would settle the business, but 
I, only feeling that here indeed were a few tall 
trees to be hewn down, immediately resolved to 
work my way on to Dora, through this thicket, 
ax in hand. 

" ' I'm very much obliged to you, my dear Trad- 
dles,' said I, * I'll begin to-morrow!'" 



68 CHARLES DICKENS. 

David was some years older than Charles 
Dickens when he struck for liberty, but he was 
not one whit more determined. 

Stenography was then, as it is to-day, a most 
complicated study, but the modern books on the 
subject have been so simplified that, with careful 
training, the average schoolgirl or boy can master 
the problem in a very short time. But in Dickens's 
day, only the favored few, chiefly newspaper re- 
porters and court reporters, were ever skillful 
enough to be expert stenographers, and the few 
books which the ambitious little law clerk was able 
to consult nearly drove him mad. Like David 
Copperfield, he " plunged into a sea of perplexity." 

" The changes rung upon dots," he tells us, 
" which in such a position meant such a thing, 
and in such another position, something else en- 
tirely different; the wonderful vagaries that were 
played by circles; the unaccountable consequences 
that resulted from marks like flies' legs; the tre- 
mendous effects of a curve in a wrong place; not 
only troubled my waking hours, but reappeared be- 
fore me in my sleep. When I had groped my way, 
blindly, through these difliculties, and had mastered 
the alphabet which was an Egyptian Temple in it- 
self, there then appeared a procession of new hor- 
rors, called arbitrary characters; the most despotic 
characters I have ever known; who insisted for 
instance that a thing like the beginning of a cob- 
web meant expectation, and that a pen-and-ink 



THE FIRST START IN LIFE. 69 

sky-rocket stood for disadvantageous. When I 
had fixed these wretches in my mind, I found that 
they had driven everything else out of it; then 
beginning again, I forgot them ; while I was picking 
them up, I dropped the other fragments of the 
system; in short it was almost heartbreaking 
. . ." but David was undaunted. " Every 
scratch in the scheme was a gnarled oak in the 
forest of difficulty, and I went on cutting them 
down one after another, with such vigor, that in 
three or four months I was in a condition to make 
an experiment on one of our crack speakers in 
the Commons. Shall I ever forget how the crack 
speaker walked off from me before I began, and 
left my imbecile pencil staggering about the paper 
as if it were in a fit ! " 

If this was David's experience at about twenty- 
two or three, that of poor little Charles Dickens, 
aged seventeen, must have been even more trying. 
Many and many a failure he made, and many and 
laughable were his mistakes. Like David, he 
pressed his family into service, and flung himself 
— note-book and pencil in hand — on the mercy 
of anyone who would deliver a speech for his 
especial benefit, and the faster the words flew, the 
faster traveled the pencil of this ambitious young 
reporter. Sometimes, he tells us, his pencil jumped 
around in such a ridiculous manner, chasing the 
obliging orator, that Charles himself was puzzled 
when it came to reading his own shorthand, but 



70 CHARLES DICKENS. 

that was merely nervousness, which he soon over- 
came. 

He haunted the courts, he attended public speak- 
ing, he never missed the smallest opportunity for 
improving his shorthand, and all through his own 
perseverance and industry, for his sole instruction 
came from the text-books which he was able to 
buy, and from those which he consulted later in 
the British Museum, books of information on 
general subjects. He was quick-witted enough to 
understand what a very limited education he had, 
and to know that to push himself along in the 
world he needed a great deal more general infor- 
mation. Whatever spare hours he had were, there- 
fore, spent in the Museum, which he often declared 
were some of the most delightful and profitable 
hours of his life. 

Added to all this strenuous work, it must be 
remembered that he was going through that peculiar 
stage of development in the life of every normal 
boy and girl : he was falling in love — with all the 
earnestness of a very ardent and impressionable 
nature. 

Of course with Dickens, who, from his earliest 
toddling days, had always some special and adored 
sweetheart, this development was not so notice- 
able to those with whom he came in daily contact. 
But just as David found his Dora, so Charles 
Dickens had his divinity, and, strange to say, the 
unknown fair one — unknown, that is, at least to 



THE FIRST START IN LIFE. 71 

history — was in many respects the original of the 
little fairy who captivated David, while Jip, the 
dog, was the faithful portrait of a certain stuffed 
Jip which he saw at the home of his former love 
many years later, when the faded romance made 
them both smile. 

But in those early days the romance was aflame 
with vigorous and healthy color. Whatever was 
best and noblest and truest in this boy of seven- 
teen, came to the front and urged him to his high- 
est eflfort. As David worked for his Dora, so he 
worked for his love. It may have been a mistaken 
passion — it certainly was not a lasting one — 
what boy of seventeen quite knows his own mind 
and heart! But while it lasted it was sincere, and 
it spurred him as the knights of old were spurred 
to their very best endeavors. Had it not been 
for this passing fancy of his, an ideal something 
for which to strive, he probably would have re- 
mained a little lawyer's clerk instead of becoming 
one of the best shorthand writers and reporters in 
England. 

For four years of his life — four important, 
useful years — this fancy held him, quite long 
enough to implant within him a very permanent 
and enduring desire to succeed, to make his mark 
in the world ; quite long enough to carry him over 
every difficulty which lay in the path he had chosen. 

We must not laugh at these early fancies of boys 
and girls. They may mean nothing in later years. 



72 CHARLES DICKENS. 

but they are none the less real when they happen 
in one's youth, and love peeps, as it were, through 
a crack in the door. 

In later years Dickens told how he once found 
himself in a church with his " Angelica," as he 
called her. He remarked to her, in impassioned, 
high-flown language, that their union should take 
place at that Altar and no other, adding in his 
whimsical way, that it certainly never did take 
place at any other. 

In writing about birthdays — his own birthday 
especially — he says : 

" I gave a party on the occasion. She was there. 
It is unnecessary to name Her more particularly. 
She was older than I, and had pervaded every 
chink and crevice of my mind for three or four 
years. I had held volumes of Imaginary Conver- 
sations with Her mother on the subject of our 
union, and I had written letters more in number 
than Horace Walpole's, to that discreet woman, 
soliciting her daughter's hand in marriage. I 
had never the remotest intention of sending these 
letters; but to write them, and after a few days 
tear them up, had been a sublime occupation." 

In the story, David Copperfield passed through 
this transition stage long before he met his Dora. 

"Who is this that breaks upon me? " he asks. 

" This is Miss Shepherd whom I love. [David 
must have been twelve at that time.] Miss 
Shepherd is a boarder at the Misses Nettingalls' 



THE FIRST START IN LIFE. 73 

establishment. I adore Miss Shepherd, she is a 
little girl in a spencer, with a round face and curly- 
flaxen hair. The Misses Nettingalls' young ladies 
come to the Cathedral. ... I cannot look 
upon my book for I must look upon Miss Shepherd. 
When the Choristers chaunt, I hear Miss Shepherd. 
In the service I mentally insert Miss Shepherd's 
name — I put her in among the Royal Family. 
At home in my own room, I am sometimes moved 
to cry out ' Oh, Miss Shepherd ! ' in a transport of 
love. 

" For sometime I am doubtful of Miss Shep- 
herd's feelings, but at length. Fate being propitious, 
we meet at the dancing-school. I have Miss 
Shepherd for my partner. I touch Miss Shep- 
herd's glove, and feel a thrill go up the right arm 
of my jacket and come out at my hair. I say 
nothing tender to Miss Shepherd, but we under- 
stand each other. Miss Shepherd and myself live 
but to be united." 

After this passion had cooled down, there was 
the eldest Miss Larkins. David was older then — 
quite seventeen — quite as old, indeed, as Charles 
Dickens when he began to study shorthand. Miss 
Larkins was thirty, but what matter! David 
adored her. Love knows no age, and so he was 
deliriously happy in the mere delight of loving. 

Ah, well! The Charles Dickens at thirty-eight, 
who wrote the history of David Copper fields could 
afford a sly laugh at that other Charles Dickens 



74 CHARLES DICKENS. 

and his youthful loves, but these innocent boyish 
heart fancies did no harm. 

In November, 1828, Dickens left Ellis and Black- 
more's office, and forever turned his back upon the 
law as a profession. He was growing daily more 
proficient with his shorthand, and the first em- 
ployment he secured was that of a reporter in the 
Lord Chancellor's Court, taking notes of the cases. 
After that he went from court to court, even re- 
porting police cases, and after nearly two years 
of hard work and active service, he at length 
reached his goal, and was appointed to a seat in 
the gallery as parliamentary reporter, shortly be- 
fore he was nineteen. 

Dickens was not always accurate in counting the 
flight of time. So much was crowded into his 
life that he might be excused for the discrepancy 
of a year or more. He says : " I went into the 
gallery of the House of Commons as a parlia- 
mentary reporter when I was a boy not eighteen," 
but this could not have been the case, for close cal- 
culations show that he was nineteen, and many 
proofs bear out this statement. At any rate, he 
was not to stay long in the gallery without making 
his mark. He found himself among a lot of am- 
bitious young fellows, of a difTerent type from the 
class into which his povert}^ had heretofore thrown 
him, and he was quick to see and feel this dif- 
ference. He began this interesting part of his 
career as reporter for The True Sun, and connected 



THE FIRST START IN LIFE. 75 

with this paper was John Forster, who was to be 
his Hfe-long friend, and later his biographer. 

Two beings more unHke in general appearance 
could not be conceived. Charles Dickens was slim 
and well-proportioned, with a finely-shaped head 
atop his graceful body, a head where the hair grew 
luxuriantly, and, worn a trifle long, was brushed 
back carelessly from an intellectual breadth of fore~ 
head. John Forster, on the contrary, was of ro- 
bust, thick-set build, something like the renowned 
Dr. Johnson, who lived and flourished in the days 
of Addison and Swift. Like Dr. Johnson, he was 
loud and assertive. He loved to talk, to lead in 
conversation, and always expressed himself well 
and fluently ; but he was clamorous in an argument, 
and swept everything before him in a volume of 
sound. 

At the time when he and Dickens found them- 
selves fellow reporters in the parliamentary gal- 
lery, he was simply a rollicking, good-natured young 
man, with his mark to make in the world — just 
like the slim boy who attracted him so much; and 
his critical mind soon discovered that even report- 
ing, fascinating though it might be, was not, in- 
deed, the final goal of his new friend. 

The love between these two was very sincere; 
no changes in the lives of either ever interrupted 
their pleasant intercourse, and, though both en- 
tered the literary field, it was through different 
gateways, and they never came into collision. 



7(y CHARLES DICKENS. 

John Forster was, first and last, a critic, and 
Dickens, first and foremost, a writer of novels; 
the former a great help to the latter, always ready 
with suggestions and criticism, and between these 
two, the plots and characters were discussed as 
seriously as though they were real individuals and 
real circumstances of life. But just at present, 
Charles Dickens, having finished the study of law, 
had taken up the broader field of English politics, 
and was laughing in his sleeve, as Charles Dickens 
often did, at the pompous representatives of the 
government, at the same time proving of enormous 
value as a reporter. 

In the course of his service, he came in con- 
tact with the best known political leaders of his 
day, such men as Brougham, Lord Stanley, Peel, 
Grey, Hume, and many others known to fame. 
Yet the reporter of nearly a century back had a 
pretty hard time of it, all things considered. In 
a speech delivered in 1865, at the second annual 
dinner of the Newspaper Press Fund, he tells of 
some of his difficulties: 

" I have pursued the calling of a reporter under 
circumstances of which many of my brethren, at 
home in England here . . . can form no 
adequate conception. I have often transcribed for 
the printer, from my shorthand notes, important 
public speeches in which the strictest accuracy was 
required . . . writing on the palm of my 
hand, by the light of a dark lantern, in a post- 



THE FIRST START IN LIFE. ^J'J 

chaise and four, galloping through a wild country 
and through the dead of the night at the then sur- 
prising rate of fifteen miles an hour. The very 
last time I was at Exeter, I strolled into the castle 
yard, there to identify — for the amusement of a 
friend — the spot on which I once ' took,' as we 
used to call it, an election speech of my noble 
friend, Lord Russell, in the midst of a lively 
fight maintained by all the vagabonds in that divi- 
sion of the country, and under such a pelting rain 
that I remember two good-natured colleagues, who 
chanced to be at leisure, held a pocket-handker- 
chief over my note-book, after the manner of a 
state canopy in an ecclesiastical procession. I have 
worn my knees by writing on them on the old back 
row of the old gallery of the old House of Com- 
mons; and I have worn my feet by standing to 
write in a preposterous pen in the old House of 
Lords, where we used to be huddled together like 
so many sheep. . . . Returning home from 
excited political meetings in the country, to the 
waiting press in London, I do verily believe I have 
been upset in almost every description of vehicle 
known in this country. I have been belated on 
miry by-roads towards the small hours, forty or 
fifty miles from London, in a wheelless carriage, 
with exhausted horses and drunken postboys, and 
have got back in time for publication. ... I 
have never forgotten the fascination of that old 
pursuit. The pleasure that I used to feel in the 



78 CHARLES DICKENS. 

rapidity and dexterity of its exercise, has never 
faded out of my breast. Whatever httle cunning 
of hand or head I took to it or acquired in it, I 
have so retained as that I fully believe I could 
resume it to-morrow, very little the worse from 
long disuse. To this present year of my life, 
when I sit in this hall or where not, hearing a dull 
speech — the phenomenon does occur — I some- 
times beguile the tedium of the moment, by men- 
tally following the speaker in the old way; and 
sometimes, if you can believe me, I find my hand 
going on the table-cloth, taking an imaginary note 
of it all." 

Indeed, the old calling of his youth was never 
quite thrown aside, and it is remarkable that 
twenty years after he left the gallery he taught 
the art of shorthand thoroughly and completely to 
Henry Austin, his young brother-in-law, who was 
entering the career of journalism. 

Dickens left The True Sun for a finer position 
on The Mirror of Parliament, edited by his 
mother's brother, John Henry Barrow, and it was 
while he was reporter for his uncle's paper that 
he wrote, for a private performance in his own 
family, a sort of burlesque of " Othello." 

Of so little moment or account did his writing 
seem in his family circle, or even among his friends, 
that this special bit passed quite unnoticed. It was 
called "O'Thello (Part of the Great Unpaid)," 
and would not have been remembered at all, had not 



THE FIRST START IN LIFE. 79 

one sheet of the original manuscript, in his own 
writing, been accidentally saved from destruction. 
This is the very earliest of Dickens's writings, but 
even the novelist himself had no recollection of it. 
It was presented by John Dickens to a friend, 
with this note at the top : 

" This page is from an unpublished Travestie 
written by Mr. Charles Dickens for private per- 
formance in his own family (1833) and is in his 
own handwriting. The * Great Unpaid ' was your 
humble servant, John Dickens, Alphingham, 6 
June, 1842." 

The only regret of the friend was that he did 
not take the whole manuscript, which was doubt- 
less destroyed along with other valuable memen- 
tos. 

From the moment Charles put his active young 
shoulders to the wheel, the family fortunes began 
to mend. They were a restless family still, moving 
from house to house, but always to a better house, 
in a better street. They had weathered the very 
heaviest storms of adversity, and never again did 
poverty look in at their windows, although it had 
left its mark upon the very soul of the young 
fellow who was beginning, slowly but surely, to 
rise above his surroundings. 

In 1834, at the age of twenty-two, he found 
himself upon the staff of the Morning Chronicle, 
one of the leading London papers, a formidable 
rival of the Times. He had won great distinction 



8o CHARLES DICKENS. 

as a reporter, he loved his work, but in that ac- 
tive mind of his there was a something pulHng 
him in another direction, and pulling with such 
force that he could not but obey its call. And so, 
instead of becoming the greatest newspaper man 
in the country, he abruptly left the field, and opened 
his inkstand, which he was destined never to close 
during the rest of his life. 



PART II. 
THE YOUNG MAN. 



CHAPTER V. 

THE FIRST SPARKS OF GENIUS. 




HORTLY before the close of Dickens's 
career as a reporter, some time in 1833, 
he wrote, as he tells us, " a little some- 
thing in secret," sent it to a magazine, 
and to his amazement, it appeared in December 
1833, in the Monthly Magazine " in all the glory 
of print." 

To picture his excitement over this unexpected 
event would be impossible. He had carried his 
manuscript stealthily in the dusk of the evening, 
and had dropped it with trembling fingers into *' a 
dark letter-box, in a dark office, in a dark court in 
Fleet Street — the office of the Monthly Maga- 
zine." The magazine went out of existence long 
ago, but the doorway and letter-box through which 
the manuscript was dropped are in the possession 
of an ardent Dickens collector. 

The " little something " was a humorous sketch 
called "A Dinner at Poplar Walk" — better 
known to-day as '' Mr. Minns and his Cousin " — 
and we of the present generation cannot help won- 
dering what mysterious quality the tale possessed 
which had the power of pushing its unknown author 

83 



84 CHARLES DICKENS. 

to the very threshold of fame. Most modern 
readers would call it nothing but a silly farce — 
which, indeed, it is — but, written in the days when 
the middle-class English folk were inclined to be 
a trifle snobbish, the little sketch was full of living 
pictures that caught the eye of the waiting editor. 
The wiles of a scheming family to get into the 
good graces of a rich relation was a picture that 
the great writers of that time were fond of paint- 
ing, and the fact that this unknown author drew 
his portraits with many broad strokes closely akin 
to caricature was probably the chief attraction. 

Let us see what this young fellow of twenty-one 
does with his middle-aged hero : 

" Mr. Augustus Minns was a bachelor, of about 
forty as he said — of about eight-and-forty as 
his friends said. He was always exceedingly 
clean, precise and tidy — perhaps somewhat prig- 
gish, and the most retiring man in the world. 

. . He occupied a first floor in Tavistock 
Street, Covent Garden, where he had resided for 
twenty years, having been in the habit of quarrel- 
ing with his landlord the whole time; regularly 
giving notice of his intention to quit on the first 
day of every quarter, and as regularly counter- 
manding it on the second. There were two classes 
of created objects which he held in the deepest 
and most unmingled horror; these were dogs and 
children. He was not unamiable, but he could 
have viewed the execution of a dog, or the assassi- 



THE FIRST SPARKS OF GENIUS. 85 

nation of an infant with the livehest satisfaction. 
Their habits were at variance with his love of 
order; and his love of order was as powerful as 
his love of life." 

Such was Mr. Minns; and the rather unruly 
adventures of that staid gentleman fonned the 
pivot of the tale. The far-seeing editor detected 
a new current running through an old theme, and 
the bare fact of its acceptance gave the young 
writer heart and courage to try again and again. 

There were nine " Sketches " in all that he con- 
tributed to the same magazine, the last appearing 
in February, 1835. Most of them were unsigned 
until August, 1834, when the pen-name of "Boz" 
made its first bow to the public, signed to a bur- 
lesque sketch, called " The Boarding House," 
chiefly remarkable for the many characters, each 
one a distinct and living person, to be found within 
the limits of so short a story. Each one of these 
nine " Sketches " was a clever hit at some special 
little human weakness, as illustrated by his central 
character. He was particularly hard on old bach- 
elors — this boy of twenty -two — ascribing to 
them the most ferocious characteristics, especially 
emphasizing their hatred of babies and small chil- 
dren in general; old maids he laughed at in his 
genial way; and scheming Mammas, pert young 
ladies, cockney clerks, grasping landladies, and 
meek husbands figured in his tales, all so vividly 

colored that we seem to have met them before. 

7 



86 CHARLES DICKENS. 

This connection with the Monthly Magazine 
lasted from December, 1833, to February, 1835, 
and then, as the magazine could no longer hold 
itself together, Dickens had to look about for 
some place where his work would sell, for hitherto 
his contributions had been entirely complimen- 
tary. 

It chanced at this time that the Morning Chron- 
icle, for which Dickens was reporting, was about 
to issue an evening edition called the Evening 
Chronicle, with Mr. George Hogarth as editor-in- 
chief. Dickens knew Hr. Hogarth and his family 
quite well, a delightful family as the young man 
soon found out, for he grew to be quite intimate 
with the three charming daughters, Catharine, 
Mary and Georgina — so intimate, in fact, that a 
delicious little romance took root and flourished, 
between him and the eldest daughter, Catharine — 
but this was later. At present Mr. Hogarth was 
chiefly concerned in procuring a contribution from 
Dickens for the first number of the new enter- 
prise. 

Dickens for many reasons was anxious to oblige 
his friend, but he wrote to him first, saying frankly 
that he should like to be paid at least some trifling 
sum for each sketch, over and above the salary he 
received as a reporter. His request was consid- 
ered reasonable, and as a consequence he received 
seven, instead of five guineas a week, with the 
stipulation that he should do a series of articles in 



THE FIRST SPARKS OF GENIUS. 87 

the style of the " Sketches " which he had done 
for the Monthly Magadne. 

Now if there was one thing he knew more about 
than people, it was London, and so he gave to his 
waiting readers his " Sketches of London," full 
of the life of the streets he loved. The first of 
these sketches was " Hackney-coach Stands," 
written at a time when the hackney-coach was 
giving place to the cheaper and more popular 
omnibus — a plea for the old-time splendor of 
the hackney-coach, and a sigh that it should 
descend at last to waiting at a stand for possible 
customers. 

"Talk of cabs!" he exclaims in conclusion. 
*' Cabs are all very well in cases of expedition 
when it's a matter of neck or nothing, life or death, 
your temporary home or your long one. But be- 
side a cab's lacking that gravity of deportment 
which so peculiarly distinguishes a hackney-coach, 
let it never be forgotten that a cab is a thing of 
yesterday, and that he never was anything better. 
A hackney-cab has always been a hackney-cab 
from his first entry into public life; whereas a 
hackney-coach is a remnant of past gentility, a 
victim of fashion, a hanger-on of an old English 
family, wearing their arms, and in days of yore 
escorted by men wearing their livery, stripped of 
his finery, and thrown upon the world like a once- 
smart footman, when he is no longer sufficiently 
juvenile for his office, progressing lower and lower 



88 CHARLES DICKENS. 

in the scale of four-wheeled degradation, until at 
last it comes to — a stand ! " 

In this series are his Sketches of London Streets 
in the morning and at night — both very effective 
and vivid pictures. 

Dickens's morning in the London streets begins 
with the first peep of dawn, and we follow his 
guiding finger until " the sun darts his bright rays 
cheerfully down the still half empty street." We 
cannot help smiling when with him we encounter 
*^ small office lads in large hats, who are made men 
before they are boys, hurrying along in pairs, with 
their first coat carefully brushed, and the white 
trousers of last Sunday plentifully besmeared with 
dust and ink " — for we know he had in mind a 
certain small boy who trudged these same streets 
in the early morning. 

Night in London, he paints even more attrac- 
tively; his description of the muffin-boy is enough 
to produce a yearning for muffins beyond all ex- 
pression : 

" In the suburbs, the muffin-boy rings his way 
down the street much more slowly than he is wont 
to do; for Mrs. Macklin of No. 4 has no sooner 
opened her little street-door, and screamed out 
* Muffins ! ' with all her might, than Mrs. Walker 
of No. 5 puts her head out of the parlor window 
and screams * Muffins ! ' too ; and Mrs. Walker has 
scarcely got the words out of her lips, than Mrs. 
Peplow, over the way, lets loose Master Peplow, 



THE FIRST SPARKS OF GENIUS. 89 

who darts down the street with a velocity which 
nothing but buttered muffins in perspective could 
possibly inspire, and drags the boy back by main 
force, whereupon Mrs. Macklin and Mrs. Walker, 
just to save the boy trouble, and to say a few neigh- 
borly words to Mrs. Peplow at the same time, run 
over the way and buy their muffins at Mrs. Peplow's 
door . . ." and whoever reads this stirring de- 
scription has a longing for buttered muffins, which 
only buttered muffins can satisfy. 

These little touches give us the key to Dickens's 
wonderful powers. At will, he could set a feast 
before us and make us smack our lips; he could 
make us laugh one moment and cry the next; he 
touched the sensitive strings of the human heart 
from the very beginning — with the hand of a 
master, and, though his pictures were often crude 
and glaringly colored, the men, women, and chil- 
dren he put upon his canvas really lived and 
breathed; the world he wrote about was a real 
world; and the things that happened were not im- 
probabilities, but what we are sure must have really 
happened in the course of the story. 

The '' Sketches by Boz," rough as they are, bub- 
ble and sparkle with real life. Any contemporary 
of young Charles Dickens could have threaded 
the network of London streets and seen just the 
things so vividly portrayed in these *' Sketches." 
Dickens himself says of them in his preface : 

'^ The whole of these Sketches were written and 



90 - CHARLES DICKENS. 

published one by one, when I was a very young 
man. They were collected and re-published while 
I was still a very young man; and sent into the 
world with all their imperfections (a good many) 
on their heads. 

*' They comprise my first attempts at authorship, 
with the exception of certain tragedies achieved at 
the mature age of eight or ten, and represented 
with great applause to overflowing nurseries. I 
am conscious of their often being extremely crude 
and ill-considered, and bearing obvious marks of 
haste and inexperience . . ." 

This was quite true, but at the same time they 
were sincere efforts in a new and untried field, 
and were beginning to bring their writer — if not 
fame — at least a certain amount of public notice, 
to say nothing of a substantial addition to his in- 
come. 

As early as 1833, while still on the staff of the 
Morning Chronicle, he decided to start a home 
of his own. Knowing how fond he was of his 
family, we cannot help wondering why, for his 
father had come up in the world and was living 
in some degree of ease and comfort in Bentinck 
Street. But we must not forget that the family 
was a large one and by no means a quiet one; that 
his writing required uninterrupted privacy; and, 
last but not least, he did not wish his growing in- 
timacy with the Hogarths to be the subject of 
family discussion, for at that particular time it is 



THE FIRST SPARKS OF GENIUS. QI 

fairly certain that he was in love with all the 
young ladies, finding it, indeed, a difficult matter 
to make a choice, for they were all charming. 

The first apartments of this young bachelor were 
in Cecil Street (Strand), but the cooking was hor- 
rible, the attention to his very modest needs was 
of the slightest, and so he moved to Buckingham 
Street, into rooms on the top floor, the same prob- 
ably which David Copperfield described as being 
'' on the top floor of the house . . . and con- 
sisted of a little half-blind entry — where you could 
see hardly anything, a little stone-blind pantry 
where you could see nothing at all, a sitting-room 
and a bedroom. The furniture was rather faded, 
but quite good enough for me ; and sure enough the 
river was outside the windows." 

In 1834 he moved to chambers in Furnivals' 
Inn, Holborn, where his first rooms consisted of 
a '' three-pair-back " at No. 13, and here many of 
the later " Sketches " were written. But finally 
he moved into No. 15, renting a "three-pair-floor- 
south," which was a vast improvement on No. 13, 
for the rooms were large and airy, and there were 
plenty of bachelor comforts all around him. 

'' There is little enough to see in Furnivals' Inn," 
he tells us in " Martin Chuzzlewit." " It is a shady, 
quiet place, echoing to the footsteps of those who 
have business there, and rather monotonous and 
gloomy on Sunday Evenings." 

Just at this time life v/as changing for him 



92 CHARLES DICKENS. 

at every point; he became engaged to Miss Catha- 
rine Thomson Hogarth, the eldest daughter of 
George Hogarth, and during the happy days of 
courtship plans were afoot for him to write a 
series of humorous articles suggested by a series 
of sketches by Seymour, the well-known artist. 

The firm of Chapman & Hall, who approached 
the young author on the subject, was just estab- 
lished, and as early as November, 1835, had pub- 
lished a little book illustrated by Seymour, called 
the " Squib Annual." The artist suggested another 
book, preferably one of sporting life, and Dickens 
was asked what he could do in that line. The re- 
sult was the origin of the Pickwick Club, and the 
creation of the immortal Mr. Pickwick, These 
Sketches were to form part of a continued tale, 
given to the public in monthly installments, and 
John Forster, his friend and biographer, remarks 
upon certain coincident dates; the first number of 
*Tickwick " appeared in April, 1836, and on April 
2, of the same year, he and Miss Hogarth were 
married very quietly. 

This date, strangely enough, was his friend's 
birthday, and always after that the event was 
celebrated most appropriately — John Forster 
usually making a third at their little anniversary 
dinner. And another thing, equally strange, was 
the origin of the goggle-eyed, round-faced, ador- 
able Mr. Pickzmck. As he was to be illustrated, 
there were naturally many suggestions as to his 



THE FIRST SPARKS OF GENIUS. 93 

face and figure. Seymour's idea was a long, thin 
man, but this was not Dickens's own conception, 
and certainly did not fit in with his description of the 
dear, placid, childlike old hero. Finally, after much 
fruitless discussion, Mr. Chapman himself came to 
the rescue and suggested a friend of his, who lived 
at Richmond, a fat, good-humored old fellow who 
would persist in wearing drab tights and black 
gaiters, and who — strange to say — bore the name 
of John Foster. Dickens noticed that the two 
names (that of his friend, John Forster, being the 
second) were not spelled alike, but he was a person 
who always enjoyed the odd happenings in life, 
and the fact that there was another John Foster 
in the world seemed to tickle his fancy and stir 
his imagination. Seymour produced an excellent 
portrait from Mr. Chapman's description, and 
though he died when but twenty-four pages of the 
book were published, the rotund, placid Mr. Pick- 
wick held his own through all successive numbers. 

With the first issue of " Pickwick," Dickens at 
the age of twenty-four brought his young bride 
home to Furnivals' Inn, where they were very cozy 
and happy for a blissful year. It was an unpre- 
tentious little wedding, with a quiet family break- 
fast after the ceremony, and a brief honeymoon 
in the little village of Chalk, about five miles from 
Rochester and two from Gravesend, with Chatham 
not far off ; and somewhere within driving or walk- 
inof distance loomed the old Gad's Hill. It was 



94 CHARLES DICKENS. 

but natural that the young fellow should wish to 
show his wife the haunts of his little boyhood, 
to talk to her of his childish dreams and aspirations, 
and to point laughingly to Gad's Hill, saying: 
" There is my goal — that red brick mansion on 
the summit will one day be my Castle, my pen 
is the key which will open all the doors that bar 
the way." And the two happy young things built 
their air-castles as the boy had built his long, long 
ago, only the man now held the key in his hand, 
while the little boy had stood with his hands in 
his empty pockets, and had just looked and looked. 
— and longed with all his lonely little heart. 

Then back to Furnivals* Inn they went, and 
Dickens started on the second number of '' Pick- 
wick," with Seymour still as illustrator, but his 
sudden and tragic death shortly after made the 
publishers cast about for a new artist. Robert 
W. Buss, whom they secured, proved most un- 
satisfactory; his etchings were beautiful, but the 
text needed broader lines of humor, and so, after 
one or two efforts, they gave him up. There were 
many applicants for the vacant post, among them 
William Makepeace Thackeray, whose drawings 
Dickens did not consider suitable, and John Leech, 
too, was turned down; but at length an artist was 
found in the person of Hablot K. Browne, and 
from that time forward he seemed the person best 
calculated to follow the queer turnings and twi st- 
ings of that most strange and original mind. 



THE FIRST SPARKS OF GENIUS. 95 

The two worked splendidly together. Browne 
adopted the name of " Pliiz " to correspond with 
the name of " Boz," and the " Pickwick " numbers 
went steadily on. According to his arrangements 
with his publishers, Dickens received fourteen 
pounds and ten shillings each month, as the num- 
bers appeared. This was considered very gener- 
ous payment, and the first two months were paid 
in advance as he needed money for his honeymoon. 

Strange to say — yet not so strange if one cares 
to review dear old " Pickwick " from cover to 
cover — the installments at first did not prove very 
popular. One's interest in the four members of 
the Pickwick Club who sallied forth to study con- 
ditions was of a mild sort, untempered by enthu- 
siasm, and it was not until Part VI, where Sam 
Weller made his appearance, that the public felt 
the least throb of interest. The jovial, philosoph- 
ical, lovable Samuel increased the circulation from 
fifty copies of each number to forty thousand, thus 
reviving the dying hopes of the publishers, who 
were nearly ready to give up the scheme. In- 
stead, they fell into such rejoicing that they sent 
the young writer a check for five hundred pounds, 
as a mark of appreciation, when the twelfth num- 
ber was reached ; and, by the time the twenty num- 
bers were completed. Chapman and Hall had made 
fourteen thousand pounds by the sale in numbers 
only, and to the elated young author they not only 
paid the stipulated salary, but three thousand 



96 CHARLES DICKENS. 

pounds besides, so popular had " Pickwick " be- 
come in the interim. 

The highly colored background of Mr. Pick- 
wick's chatty young servant threw the drab tights 
and black gaiters of the old gentleman into excel- 
lent relief, for the inimitable Samuel loved his mas- 
ter, and was continually talking about his good 
points. " ' Bless his old gaiters,' rejoined Sam, 
looking out at the garden door. * He's a-keepin' 
guard in the lane with that ere dark lantern, like 
a amiable Guy Fawkes! I never see such a fine 
creetur in all my days. Blessed if I don't think 
his heart must have been born five-and-twenty 
years arter his body at least.' " 

And Sam's devotion to his master was too gen- 
uine to hide even beneath the thick crust of ridicu- 
lous events which were making that poor gentleman 
a laughing-stock to friends and foes alike. 

" ^ No man serves him but me, and now we're 
upon it, I'll let you into another secret besides 
that,' " said Sam to Job Trotter. " ' I never heerd, 
mind you, nor read of in story-books, nor seen in 
picters, any angel in tights and gaiters — not even 
in spectacles, as I remember, though that may ha' 
been done for anythin' I know to the contrairy — 
but mark my words, Job Trotter, he's a regular 
thorough-bred angel for all that, and let me see 
the man as wentures to tell me he knows a better 
vun.' " 

As number after number of the " Pickwick Pa- 



THE FIRST SPARKS OF GENIUS. 97 

pers'^ appeared, just so steadily did the public 
interest increase. Yet what was the secret of its 
immense popularity it would be hard to explain. 
There is no story to hold it together, and the 
adventures of Messrs. Pickwick, Tupman, Snod- 
grass and Winkle, certainly fail to reflect much 
credit on their common-sense. Every person de- 
scribed by Dickens in this immortal work, was 
drawn upon the very broadest lines of caricature. 
All the situations are farcical, yet people talked 
of it all over London, high and low, rich and poor, 
young people and old, hailed the coming of each 
number, and one desperately ill person, with 
scarcely a step between himself and the grave, 
was heard to exclaim, " Well, thank God, ' Pick- 
wick ' will be out in ten days anyway!" 

A new note had been struck in the literary 
world; the young author, pen in hand, looked on 
in amazement at the sensation he had created. 
It was so easy for him to write of people and 
their manners that he did not realize, at first, 
the hold he had upon his readers, and then sud- 
denly, in the midst of all his good fortune, came 
his first terrible sorrow. 

On January 6, 1837, his eldest son was born, 
in the old rooms at Furnivals' Inn, and of course 
there was great rejoicing in the household. But 
the dear familiar quarters were too cramped for 
even a very little new baby, so they moved to No. 
48, Doughty Street, and with them went Mrs. 



98 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Dickens's next younger sister, Mary Hogarth, a 
lovely girl, of whom Dickens was exceedingly fond. 
She died very suddenly, after an evening which 
they had spent pleasantly together at the theater. 
She breathed her last in his arms, and the shock — 
no less than the sincere grief — prostrated him 
for many weeks, during which time his pen lay 
idle, while the public clamored in vain for the 
thirteenth installment of *' Pickwick," and the 
serial was interrupted for a whole month to 
give the young author time to regain his mental 
balance. 

From the first, Dickens had always shown the 
most romantic affection for all the Hogarth girls, 
and many believe that in choosing a wife, he was 
absolutely impartial, as he loved them all alike. 
For Mary, after his marriage, he had all the affec- 
tion of a brother, and the memory of her haunted 
many of his stories. He himself wrote the epitaph 
on the simple gravestone at Kensalgreen: 

" Young, beautiful, and good, God numbered 
her among his angels at the early age of seven- 
teen." 

Many of us know that exquisite poem of Long- 
fellow's called " Resignation," and there is one 
stanza which fits in peculiarly just here: 

Let us be patient ; these severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 



THE FIRST SPARKS OF GENIUS. 99 

This was true in Dickens's case. His love of 
girls and their ways, and their numberless graces, 
dates more especially from those days when he 
knew and loved and mourned for Mary Hogarth. 
She became to him a symbol of all that was love- 
liest in girlhood, and out of his grief he built im- 
mortal monuments to her memory, in the forms of 
the girls which flit through his books, girls who 
delight us at every turn and live in our minds as 
permanently as Mr. Pickwick or even Sam Weller. 

Hitherto his books had been singularly lacking 
in a certain charming element which later on was 
to temper the fun and soften all the too vivid color 
in his work, but from the time of " Nicholas 
Nickleby," his next book, we find distinct touches 
which show how the death of this one young girl 
wrapped its influence about his whole life. Hith- 
erto girls had played no part in his writing; from 
now on he studied them with the result that prob- 
ably no writer of his time knew them half as well, 
or gave to the world such living portraits. 

His pen, we must remember, was a magic wand ; 
all that it touched became real, and as, from now 
on, we meet the girls who were his children, we 
know that once they really lived. 

This was Mary Hogarth's precious legacy to 
him, and through her death he became master of 
many gifts heretofore unnoticed in his work — 
the gift of pathos more than all. He had seen 
death, he had felt its pangs, he had sorrowed, and 



lOO CHARLES DICKENS. 

SO he could write of death and sorrow as he had 
never done before, giving that touch which can 
draw unexpected tears at unexpected moments. 

Many modern writers and critics contend that 
Dickens Hngered too much over these painful 
scenes, but we must not forget that the people he 
sent out of the world were real people to him and 
to those who read his books, and as real people 
they had to live and die in the most natural way, 
while they also lived and laughed in quite as natural 
a fashion. 

Dickens put whole sermons into these somber 
scenes; he never, on any account, in any of his 
books, stayed away from a funeral ; he was always 
there, to still the grief and say the timely word in 
his own pathetic way, living over in each instance 
that never-to-be-forgotten time when Mary Hogarth 
died. 

But, once recovered from the shock, he took up 
his pen again, and '' Pickwick " went on smoothly 
to the end, while the public smacked its lips over 
each installment, and the publishers and author 
raked in a harvest beyond all their dreams. 

No hint of sorrow or death marred the lightness 
of touch which the artist lent to this frolicsome 
masterpiece. But he still hid behind the pen-name 
of " Boz," while the world wondered who this 
" Boz " could be, who could write so vividly of 
so many people and situations. " Pickwick " be- 
came the most popular name in the English Ian- 



THE FIRST SPARKS OF GENIUS. lOI 

guage, and it was even used by shop-keepers, to 
advertise their articles, and to-day we come across 
The Pickwick Club, the Pickwick cigar, the Pick- 
wick pen, and many other things as odd in their 
way as the deHghtful old gentleman in the drab 
tights and black gaiters. 

Thackeray considered " Pickwick " a great con- 
temporary history of the English people, and cer- 
tain it is that it placed the young author, at twenty- 
four, high on the ladder of fame. Thackeray was 
thirty-six when he achieved his first success in 
*' Vanity Fair " ; George Eliot was forty when she 
wrote " Adam Bede " ; and Scott was at least forty- 
three when "Waverley" appeared, the first of the 
famous Waverley novels. 

It was a dizzy height to reach all of a sudden, 
but Charles Dickens was too sure-footed to fall; 
his keen, alert eyes were looking deep into the heart 
of the world; and his pen was poised to write of 
what he found there. 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE FIRST NOVELS AND WHAT CAME OF THEM. 




HE brilliant young author — now fairly 
launched upon his career with no 
thought nor care for the morrow — 
could look ahead and plan how best to 



do his work. While still engaged upon '* Pick- 
wick," orders and demands poured in upon him 
and his pen was never at rest. The people — espe- 
cially the London people — being always in his 
mind, even in those early days, he wrote a little 
article in their behalf, entitled " Sunday under 
Three Heads." The House of Commons had 
passed some very rigid laws about the observance 
of the Sabbath, and Dickens's paper was a plea for 
the poor and the little excursions and simple pleas- 
ures which they could only enjoy of a Sunday. 
This did not bear his own signature — he signed 
himself "Timothy Sparks" — but it was forcible 
enough to make some impression, for the Museums 
and picture galleries were thereafter kept open on 
Sundays. 

At this time, too (1836), he wrote a small farce 
called " The Strange Gentleman," which was pro- 
duced> with fair success, in the new St. James's 

102 



THE FIRST NOVELS. 103 

Theater. Even before this he had combined with 
John Hullah, a young musical composer of his own 
age, and set to his music a little piece which he 
called " The Village Coquette," and it was played 
in London and in Edinburgh. Dickens never took 
much credit for this work, it was plainly written 
to fit in with the music. Another farce called " Is 
She His Wife? or, Something Singular! " was also 
reeled ofif at this period, and there is yet a fourth, 
called " The Lamplighter," which was written for 
Macready, but which never saw the light. Later 
Dickens turned it into " The Lamplighter's Story," 
which was published with other stories and essays 
under the title of " The Pic Nic Papers," and with 
his well-known generosity Dickens gave the pro- 
ceeds to the destitute family of Macrone, one of 
his early publishers. 

When " Pickwick " had reached its tenth num- 
ber, Dickens agreed with another publisher, Richard 
Bentley, to edit a new monthly magazine to be 
called Benfley's Miscellany and to contribute a 
serial story. Accordingly, in the second number 
he presented the opening chapter of *' Oliver 
Twist," by many conceded to be the most powerful 
and dramatic of all his stories. It was begun in 
February and finished in September, 1838. 

We cannot help wondering at the enormous 
energy of this young man. His mind worked like 
a steam-engine; he carried at one time not only 
'^Pickwick" and ''Oliver Twist," but in April, 



!I04 CHARLES DICKENS. 

1838, ** Pickwick '^ being concluded, the first num- 
ber of " Nicholas Nickleby " took its place, and 
Dickens, fresh from the dramatic interest of one 
story, could plunge into the pathos of the other 
without the confusion of style or the mixing of 
plots. Added to all this, were constant contribu- 
tions to Bentley's Miscellany on various subjects, 
the first being " Public Life of Mr. Tulrumble, 
once Mayor of Mudfog," the beginning of a series 
called "The Mudfog Papers." The Mudfog 
Association was founded for the " Advancement 
of Everything." This gave the young editor great 
scope for a laugh and a slap at many time-honored 
public institutions, and he certainly hit hard and 
laughed merrily — it was his way. 

Anonymous writing was very much the rage in 
Dickens's day, and in 1839 a little book was pub- 
lished by Chapman, Hall & Co., called " Sketches 
of Young Ladies." It was a handful of rude and 
satirical essays on the peculiarities and weak- 
nesses of Young Ladies, and was signed " Quiz." 
Dickens at once came to their defense, and, under 
the same pen-name, attacked ** Young Gentlemen " 
in a series of Sketches written in the same style; 
later on he wrote *' Sketches of Young Couples," 
and these were all collected in book form, and were 
daintily illustrated by "Phiz" (Hablot K. 
Browne) ; but Dickens himself calls this collection 
" a poor thing of little worth," and apart from the 
illustrations and a certain broad humor, we can 



THE FIRST NOVELS. 105 

detect nothing of greatness in these commonplace 
little essays. 

He was also engaged at this time in editing the 
" Memoirs of Joseph Grimaldi/' the famous clown, 
who was one of the earliest recollections of his 
childhood. Any ordinary man would have stag- 
gered under the weight of work such as Dickens 
carried, but not so this active young enthusiast. 
The more he had to do, the more he enjoyed him- 
self, and he juggled first with one thing and then 
with another, in the most amazing manner. His 
brain was seething with a thousand fancies — his 
heart was beating with a thousand hopes. He was 
eager — not only to show the world what he could 
do, but to do something for that world which he 
loved — the world which had been kind to the 
small boy, thrown into the heart of it. 

In the writing of " Oliver Twist " there is no 
doubt that here again Dickens had himself in mind, 
in drawing the delicate, shrinking character of this 
boy from the workhouse. If loneliness, and weari- 
ness, and uncongenial companions were signs of 
resemblance, then Oliver Twist bore a strong like- 
ness to Charles Dickens, who trudged daily to and 
from the blacking-warehouse. But the boy in the 
book stands forth almost alone from the grue- 
some shadows of the story. We must not forget, 
however, that before the third number appeared 
the author had been sorely tried, by his first real 
grief, for the shadow of it certainly haunts the 



I06 CHARLES DICKENS. 

book, and while it may be acknowledged as the 
first novel of Charles Dickens, it is decidedly not 
the book to be recommended as a first reading of 
Dickens to anyone young enough to have that fair 
open field of good reading from which to pick 
and choose. 

The young man, in writing his first novel, dived 
into some of the darkest haunts of the London 
he knew so well, and it is also well-known that 
every scene which has a locality for a background 
gains truth and vividness in the course of any 
story, a fact which only enhances the gloominess 
and horror of this one. Yet it accomplished one 
lasting good — it awoke the honest people of Lon- 
don to the knowledge that in their midst, perhaps 
within touch, were schools of training for the pro- 
ifessional thief. It opened the eyes of the City 
guardians and made them doubly watchful, for this 
eager reformer had painted such a true and ghastly 
picture that the very streets where such things 
happened rose specter-like out of the night's ob- 
scurity, and the slim young fellow, with his earnest, 
handsome face and keen alert eyes, was fast be- 
coming that rarest of all birds — a prophet in his 
own country. 

It seems strange that he should have written 
such a tale at a time when for him life was full 
of rosy promises. He was happily married, with 
a bouncing boy to enliven the house, and fast win- 
ning for himself a name and reputation. Yet per- 



THE FIRST NOVELS. 10/ 

haps it was this very contrast between his own cir- 
cumstances and those of the people who lived in 
the dark haunts which gave him pause and armed 
his pen. 

He could not forget, with all the sordid mem- 
ories of his boyhood fresh in his mind, that he, too, 
had been of the people who worked in the darkness, 
and it was this fact, that he was one of them, which 
made him so great a power. He never tried to 
push himself out of the Middle Class to which he 
belonged from first to last. He was proud of it, 
and, although the portals of the great world swung 
wide for him, and he entered the gardens and 
plucked the flowers, he always went back to the 
people, and they pressed about him and gave him 
the wealth of their love and reverence. 

" Oliver Twist," written, then, from the depths 
of a strong moral purpose, also stands apart as the 
author's first attempt at a regular novel — his first 
attempt, too, to trace the simple history of a sweet 
and lovely girl, his first tribute to the memory of 
the dead girl he had loved so well. In the char- 
acter of Rose May lie, he has given us a pen picture 
of Mary Hogarth. 

" The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and 
springtime of womanhood, at the age when, if 
ever angels be for God's purpose enthroned in 
mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, sup- 
posed to abide in such as hers. She was not past 
seventeen, cast in so slight and exquisite a mold. 



I08 CHARLES DICKENS. 

so mild and gentle, so pure and beautiful that earth 
seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures 
her fit companions/' 

Sweet Rose Maylie! The memory of her is a 
beautiful, tender picture drawn from life. There 
is another girl in the book, but she haunts the 
darkness where she has been thrust — a crimson 
flower with the bloom all brushed away. Had she 
been given a chance with light and air, who knows 
what poor Nancy might have become, and therein 
lay the wonderful gift of Charles Dickens. He 
took these two girls, both young and handsome, 
and placed almost a world between them. For 
Rose, the sun shone, the birds sang, the flowers 
bloomed in quiet, old-fashioned garden spots, where 
to be good seemed to be a natural thing. For 
Nancy, there was darkness always ; the sun at best 
but shivered through a cloud, and the light of a 
sputtering candle threw grotesque shadows round 
her dingy haunts; there was the smell of evil in 
the air, and the odor clung to her garments. Poor 
child! the thick fog hid the garden spots, and per- 
haps she never saw a flower. Yet she saw Rose, 
a sweet, pitiful, sorrowful Rose; from the two 
ends of the earth, Dickens brought the two girls 
face to face; they clasped hands across the gulf, 
they were " sisters under their skin," as Rudyard 
Kipling says, then Rose went back to light and 
life, and Nancy to darkness and death. 

There is where Dickens triumphs — he does not 



THE FIRST NOVELS. 109 

give us a *' sensation," he makes us " feel," and out 
of all the horror of " Oliver Twist " we can remem- 
ber the meeting of these two girls, and the fair 
promise of what might have been had they met 
again. 

Charles Dickens might have had for his motto, 
** To right the wrong," so earnestly did his efforts 
tend towards that good purpose. From the first 
moment that " Nicholas Nickleby " took shape in 
his brain, the little blighted Yorkshire schoolboy 
rose in his mind. Before writing a line of this 
story, he determined to see for himself one or more 
of these Yorkshire schools, to study the school- 
masters, whose notorious cruelty was even then 
whispered abroad. They were veritable Turks 
and Tartars — these schoolmasters. Dickens had 
some suspicion of their existence, from his recol- 
lections of Wellington House Academy, but he was 
soon to learn that Mr. Jones — the head of that 
school — was a prince of courtliness and gentleness 
compared with the ogres of Yorkshire and its 
neighborhood, who watched over and regulated the 
very heart-beats of the shivering little mortals com- 
mitted to their care. 

It was by this time an open secret that the " inim- 
itable Boz," as his admirers called him, was none 
other than Charles Dickens, but B03 was always a 
favorite nickname among his friends, and he him- 
self was very partial to it. 

When '' Pickwick " had reached its seventeenth 



no CHARLES DICKENS. 

number, the publishers announced that they had 
" completed arrangements with Mr. Dickens for 
the production of an entirely new novel to be pub- 
lished monthly, at the same price and in the same 
form as the ' Pickwick Papers.' " 

This was " Nicholas Nickleby/' begun on his 
birthday (February 7), 1838, after some struggle, 
for a " new story " was always a serious under- 
taking, and was always approached with some hesi- 
tation and many misgivings. He was fresh for 
the task; he had taken a pleasant holiday trip into 
Flanders, with his wife and Hablot K. Browne, 
later he passed a short while at Broadstairs, his 
favorite seaside town, and he returned to London 
ready to storm it with " Nicholas Nickleby." 

His first step in the new book was his trip into 
Yorkshire accompanied by Hablot K. Browne, who 
was to illustrate the story. His object was to see 
the schools in session and the schoolmasters at their 
very worst. Education was greatly neglected in 
England at that time; anyone was free, without 
preparation or examination, to become a school- 
master, and the man who was generally unfit for 
anything else was at liberty to open a school any- 
where. This state of affairs produced the most 
illiterate, incapable set of schoolmasters, and Dick- 
ens tells us in the preface to his book that " these 
Yorkshire schoolmasters were the lowest and most 
rotten round in the whole ladder." 

The two young men reached Yorkshire in the 



THE FIRST NOVELS. Ill 

dead of winter, in the midst of a heavy snow-storm. 
They were anxious to conceal their identity as they 
heard that even the worst of schoolmasters were 
rather shy with strangers. However, Dickens was 
armed with some letters of introduction from a 
friend in London to his Yorkshire connections, 
and the plan was to consult them in reference to 
a supposed little boy " who had been left with a 
widowed mother, who didn't know what to do 
with him; the poor lady had thought ... of 
sending him to a Yorkshire school ; I was the poor 
lady's friend traveling that way, and if the recipient 
of the letter could inform me of a school in his 
neighborhood, the writer would be very much 
obliged." 

This little " cooked up *' story was the screen 
behind which Dickens hid as he traveled over the 
Yorkshire country, and the recipient of one letter 
was a jovial, ruddy, broad- faced man, " who spoke 
the true Yorkshire English,'^ just as John Browdie 
did in " Nicholas Nickleby." In speaking of him, 
Dickens says in his preface: 

" I went to several places in that part of the 
country where I understood these schools to be 
most plentifully sprinkled, and had no occasion to 
deliver a letter until I came to a certain town which 
shall be nameless. The person to whom it was 
addressed was not at home; but he came down at 
night through the snow, to the inn where I was 
staying. It was after dinner, and he needed little 



112 CHARLES DICKENS. 

persuasion to sit down by the fire in a warm cor- 
ner, and take his share of the wine that was on 
the table." 

They talked on many subjects round the cheerful 
fire, but whenever a school was mentioned, the 
guest fell silent or answered in monosyllables. 
Over and over Dickens tried to draw him out upon 
the subject; each time he sheered off, until at length, 
on leaving, he broke out in his strong Yorkshire 
dialect, strongly advising the "widow lady" not 
to send her little boy to a Yorkshire schoolmaster 
while there was a horse to hold in the London 
streets, or a gutter to sleep in. 

This was just the testimony that Dickens needed 
to present his case; he saw the schools soon after; 
then he wrote his story, a plea for the " hundreds 
of thousands of minds that have been deformed 
forever by the incapable pettifoggers who have 
pretended to form them ! " 

This great evil of the cheap school was of course 
the root of " Nicholas Nickleby," and the young 
author was gratified to see how, during the prog- 
ress of the story, this awful blot upon England's 
humanity had impressed the reading public. But 
the book holds much more besides. It is built upon 
a plot — all of Dickens's novels are — and holds 
the interest straight through, from the time we 
meet the simple, unworldly Mrs. Nickleby and her 
two fine young children — the high-spirited Nich- 
olas and his pretty sister Kate — until the wedding 



THE FIRST NOVELS. II3 

bells at the very end, where everybody gets mar- 
ried, just as they always did in the good old com- 
edies. 

By all means we must take '' Nicholas Nickleby " 
as our first reading of Dickens. To begin with, 
there is youth in it. Everybody is young, except 
the old world-worn villains who are never young, 
no matter what their age. Nicholas is young and 
a fighter — we are glad his shoulders are broad 
and his arm strong, and that he has a fearless 
tongue, which he knows when and how to use, 
especially in Dotheboys Hall, when he entered the 
amiable family of Squeers. 

All readers of Dickens know that he was fond 
of producing what in literature are known as 
" types," but that is the wrong start to take in 
reading Dickens's books. Enjoy them first; there 
is always a wholesome story, and if accidentally 
we come across photographs of people we know, 
why, so much the more will be our enjoyment. A 
second reading will probably show us something 
new — something which we never noticed before, 
and by the time we reach a third reading, we may 
be as intimate with all the characters as Dickens 
was himself when he popped them in between the 
covers, and still leave something to be discovered 
if we care to read them a fourth time. 

Who ever heard of a school called Dotheboys 
Hall! Yet we see how aptly the name was chosen 
(Do the boys), for the poor little fellows were 



114 CHARLES DICKENS. 

certainly "done up" and "done for" under the 
hospitable roof of Mr. Squeers. 

Three people in this book were drawn from the 
heart of Dickens's own family. Mrs. Nickleby 
was a sort of caricature of his mother. Kate 
Nickleby was a tribute to his favorite sister, 
Fanny, and Nicholas himself was supposed to 
possess the outward form of Henry Burnett, 
Fanny's husband, though it is also more than 
probable that Nicholas, as we find him in the 
story, from nineteen to twenty-five, was in some 
manner his own biographical sketch at that 
period, for he had many of the same aspirations 
and ambitions. 

As to his mother's likeness to Mrs, Nickleby, 
it must have been, as Mr. Percy Fitzgerald tells 
us, " simply the exaggeration of some slight pecul- 
iarities," for while Mrs. Dickens was considered 
by all her friends to possess her fair share of com- 
mon-sense, with plenty of wit and a keen sense of 
humor, poor Mrs, Nickleby did not enjoy that dis- 
tinction. But Dickens admits the resemblance, for 
he tells us: 

" Mrs. Nickleby herself, sitting bodily before me 
in a solid chair, once asked me if I really believed 
there was such a woman ! " 

This was rather hard on a really sensible woman 
like Mrs. Dickens, for Mrs. Nickleby is generally 
conceded to be one of the biggest fools in fiction. 
He has given us, too, in this most interesting book, 



THE FIRST NOVELS. II5 

some specimens of typical English girls, which are 
as varied as they are delightful. 

To begin at the beginning, there is Kate herself, 
only seventeen when we meet her first, a charming, 
beautiful, spirited girl, at an age which to Dickens 
was always beautiful, because Mary Hogarth had 
lived those years and had died in their fullness, and 
when he wrote " Nicholas Nickleby " the grief was 
still fresh in his heart. We meet Kate Nickleby 
every day among the girls we know, simple and 
sincere, beautiful and virtuous, but in these twen- 
tieth-century days we don't grow up so quickly. 
Our girls are not thrust into society before they 
pull off their pinafores, but alas! when poor Kate 
Nickleby lengthened her skirts, she stepped right 
into young ladyhood, and found the world very 
wicked and scheming — at least her world, which 
encompassed the burly form of that " baddest " 
of bad uncles. There never was such a villain on 
land or sea (except possibly all the others Dickens 
has written about) as Ralph Nickleby. 

Quite another type of girl was Miss Fanny 
Sqiieers, and from the earliest times her portraits 
have taxed the ingenuity of every one of Dickens's 
illustrators. She was decidedly not a charming 
girl ; she had a dumpy figure, a loud voice, a " wall- 
eye," and a bad temper, and, being a schoolmaster's 
daughter — especially a Yorkshire schoolmaster's 
daughter — her English was so very bad it could 
not be improved. 



Il6 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Poor Nicholas had the fortune or misfortune to 
be very good-looking, a fact which the little 
*' slavey " belonging to the establishment confided 
to Miss Fanny Sqiieers, who decided to see for 
herself, and every schoolgirl knows by heart that 
absurd scene where the valiant Fanny, armed with 
a quill pen, stormed Nicholas in the school-room 
during her father's absence. 

'' * I beg your pardon,' faltered Miss Squeers, 
' I thought my father was — or might be — dear 
me, how very awkward ! ' 

" ' Mr. Squeers is out,' said Nicholas, by no 
means overcome by the apparition, unexpected 
though it was. 

" ' Do you know how long he will be, sir? ' asked 
Miss Squeers with bashful hesitation. 

" * He said about an hour/ replied Nicholas — 
politely, of course, but without any indication of 
being stricken to the heart by Miss Squeers's 
charms. 

" * I never knew anything happen so cross,' ex- 
claimed the young lady. * Thank you ! I am very 
sorry I intruded, I am sure. If I hadn't thought 
my father was here, I wouldn't upon any account 
have — it is very provoking — must look so 
very strange,' murmured Miss Squeers, blushing 
once more, and glancing from the pen in her hand, 
to Nicholas at his desk, and back again. 

" * If that is all you want,' said Nicholas, point- 
ing to the pen and smiling in spite of himself, 



THE FIRST NOVELS. Ii;; 

at the affected embarrassment of the schoolmaster's 
daughter, * perhaps I can supply his place/ " 

Of course this was what the adorable Fanny 
wished, and she sidled and bridled as she yielded 
up the pen. Steel pens were not used in those days, 
the usual implement for writing was a goose-quill, 
and the nib was the point of the hollow stem, which 
had to be cut according to the taste of the writer. 

"'Shall it be a hard or a soft nib?' inquired 
Nicholas, smiling to prevent himself from laughing 
outright. 

" ' He has a beautiful smile,' thought Miss 
Squeers. 

" ' Which did you say ? ' asked Nicholas. 

" ' Dear me ! I was thinking of something else 
for the moment, I declare,' replied Miss Squeers. 
* Oh! as soft as possible, if you please,' with which 
words Miss Squeers sighed. It might be, to give 
Nicholas to understand that her heart was soft, 
and that the pen was wanted to match." 

This ridiculous scene took place in the school- 
room over which Nicholas was presiding, and five- 
and-twenty wretched, shivering boys were opening 
wide their five-and-twenty pairs of eyes, in solemn 
wonder. Then Nicholas dropped the pen and 
stooped to get it, Miss Squeers stooped, too, and 
their heads bumped smartly. 

"Ha-ha-ha!" laughed the little boys, and the 
school-room echoed with the unwonted sound. 

Poor little lads! Their sense of humor burst 

9 



Il8 CHARLES DICKENS. 

the bonds, though they knew they would be flogged! 
for it on the morrow. 

Now Miss Squeers's friend 'Tilda was a clean- 
cut type of a pretty, romping, mischievous, good- 
hearted English country-girl. How well Dickens 
knew his girls and drew them! He had met them 
often in Chatham and Rochester, and when 'Tilda 
became Mrs. John Browdie, which she did without 
much delay, she made just the lovable, comfortable, 
pretty, smiling, helpful little matron, who always 
put the kettle on at the right moment, and knew 
how to make a happy home for a good husband. 

The next girls Nicholas met on his travels (it 
was not long before he had broken a cane over the 
head of the wretched Squeers, and had run away 
with poor Smike from Dotheboys Hall) were the 
Kenwigses, four little girls like four little steps, 
from Morleena down, all precisely alike, with their 
thin little legs and arms, and pig-tail plaits of flaxen 
hair sticking out from their thin little shoulders. 
The little Kenwigses seldom spoke; they sat about 
stiffly on their stiff little chairs, and Morleena some- 
times said " Yes, Ma " or " No, Ma '' when fat 
Mrs, Kenwigs prodded her, but they were there, 
nevertheless, very much alive, in spite of their 
speechlessness, and Nicholas picked up a few stray 
shillings by teaching them French. 

Morleena semed to be the only one of the four 
litle Kenwigs sisters who possessed a name, the 
other little " pig-tailed " girls played chorus, and 



THE FIRST NOVELS. II9 

there was a baby-boy christened something or other 
after his uncle Lillyvick, the great man of the fam- 
ily. Indeed, this small and insignificant household, 
with its small and insignificant hopes and ambitions, 
stands out very sharply in the novel, though at first 
sight they appear but stepping-stones to Nicholas's 
rise to fortune. Uncle Lillyvick, being a water 
tax collector, was a personage among his admiring 
relatives, who hoped in the future to inherit his 
savings — and the Kenwigs children were sup- 
posed to dote upon him. 

" * Morleena Kenwigs,' cried her mother, in a 
torrent of affection, * go down upon your knees 
to your dear uncle, and beg him to love you all his 
life through, for he's more a angel than a man, 
and I've always said so.' " 

And Morleena J having the family welfare at 
heart, did as her mother told her, and did much 
more in her quiet speechless way, all the little Ken- 
wigses following suit, except Baby Kenwigs, who 
was too young to follow anything. 

On the very highest authority we have it that 
Miss Morleena, aged ten, was a wonderful young 
woman; her mother said so, and that was enough. 
At any rate, we know that the little Kenmigses were 
real flesh and blood little girls, far more of flesh 
and blood than poor Smike, who creeps like a 
shadow through the story. 

As Nicholas proceeds from adventure to adven- 
ture, we cannot help seeing how the life of the 



120 CHARLES DICKENS. 

real Charles Dickens becomes interwoven with the 
life of his hero. For instance, we all know that 
Dickens's earliest ambitions pointed towards the 
stage at that time, and, had the scales leaned ever 
so slightly in that direction, he would gladly have 
followed that fascinating profession, and no doubt 
with some distinction. So when Nicholas chanced 
to meet Mr. Vincent Crummies, it is small wonder 
that he jumped at the offer of that gentleman, and 
soon found himself treading the boards with much 
more ease and comfort than when teaching at five 
pounds a year, in Mr. Squeers's select establishment. 
And here we come across another girl, in the per- 
son of Miss Ninette Crummies, better known as 
the Infant Phenomenon. 

There was never a child like that child, and the 
things she could not do while twirling on her toes, 
were certainly not worth doing at all by anybody. 
In fact, all the Crummies' s were celebrated in some 
theatrical way, even the pony, behind which Mr. 
Crummies drove Nicholas and Smike to Ports- 
mouth, where they were to make their professional 
debiat. 

" * Many and many is the circuit this pony has 
gone,' said Mr. Crummies, flicking him skillfully 
on the eyelid for old acquaintance sake. * He is 
quite one of us. His mother was on the stage.' 

"'Was she?' rejoined Nicholas. 

" ' She ate apple-pie at a circus for upward of 
fourteen years,' said the manager, ' fired pistols. 



THE FIRST NOVELS. 121 

and went to bed in a night-cap, in short, took the 
low comedy entirely. His father was a dancer/ 

" * Was he at all distinguished ? ' 

" * Not very,' said the manager. * He was rather 
a low sort of pony. The fact is, he had been orig- 
inally jobbed out by the day, and he never quite 
got over his old habits. He was clever in melo- 
drama, too, but too broad — too broad. When 
the mother died, he took the port-wine business.' 

" * The port-wine business ! ' cried Nicholas. 

" * Drinking port-wine with the clown,' said the 
manager ; * but he was greedy, and one night bit 
off the bowl of the glass and choked himself, so 
his vulgarity w^as the death of him at last.' " 

With such talent among even the horses, it was 
but natural that the Infant Phenomenon should be 
a marvel, and the fact that she had stayed ten years 
of age for five years at least only made her prowess 
the more remarkable. 

Nicholas and Sniike, tired and dispirited after 
their long runaway tramp, were glad to find a 
refuge in this wonderful dramatic circle, and no 
doubt Dickens related many of his own experiences 
and described many of his own associates among 
the queer characters he encountered behind the 
scenes. 

Madeline Bray, the only other girl in the story, 
is almost too shadowy to be a real girl. She is 
just another step in Nicholas Nickleby's career — 
the girl he loved — but, in spite of her sweetness 



122 CHARLES DICKENS. 

and her connection with the very dramatic plot, 
she fails to become a living character. Kate, with 
her steadfast truth, her spirit, and, above all, her 
likeness to her brother, is much more convincing. 

The novel is full of portraits taken from life, as 
well as of ideal pictures painted by the master hand 
of Dickens himself, so true to life that they seem 
like life itself. Indeed, as Charles Dickens and his 
books acquired more and more of a hold upon his 
readers, it became the fashion to believe that Dick- 
ens's characters were quite out of the ordinary. 
It was customary to say : " Oh, he is odd — he 
reminds me of one of Dickens's characters." 

Now, this was rather hard upon a great writer 
like Dickens, who had the rare gift of painting 
life exactly as he found it. The Cheeryble Broth- 
ers, Tim Linkinwater, Miss La Creevy, even the 
crazy old gentleman who lived next door to Mrs. 
Nickleby, all stand equally life-like before us. Yet 
from among them the Cheeryble Brothers are the 
only portraits from life. 

The writing of " Nicholas Nickleby " took from 
April, 1838, until October, 1839, for, as the story 
appeared in serial form, twenty numbers were the 
usual limit. Dickens, young as he was, was some- 
what a creature of habit in the writing of his books ; 
because he chanced to be out of town when the 
first installment of " Pickwick " appeared, he con- 
trived also to be absent when the first installment 
of " Nickleby " was published. He summoned 



THE FIRST NOVELS. 123 

Forster, his trusted friend, on a Saturday night, 
and at one o'clock Sunday morning the two men 
went for a horseback ride, the excited young author 
carrying the glad news that on the first day fifty 
thousand copies of that first number had been sold 
to the eager reading public. 

So " Nicholas Nickleby " emerged into its wait- 
ing niche, amid the loud tooting of the trumpet of 
fame. Its wholesomeness, its truthfulness, and 
above all, its dramatic force, attracted readers 
young and old. 

One small boy wrote to Dickens concerning the 
rewards and punishments to be meted out in the 
course of the story, and in a very funny letter Dick- 
ens replied to Master Hastings Hughes, stating that 
his many suggestions should be followed to the 
letter if possible; and it is highly probable, that in 
the course of his novels, which generally appeared 
serially, many similar suggestions guided his imagi- 
nation. Many Yorkshire schoolmasters claimed 
relationship to Squeers; but, oddly enough, that 
most unpleasant character was the outcome of the 
shameful conditions of the cheap schools, and not 
a photograph of any special person. 

Suffice it to say, that, little by little, these cheap 
schools disappeared, the cruel Yorkshire school- 
master slunk away into oblivion, while " Nicholas 
Nickleby " reared its proud crest as a monument 
to the downfall of all the Squeerses in the world. 

There is one great chapter of retribution written 



124 CHARLES DICKENS. 

especially, we suppose, for Master Hastings 
Hughes, describing a wild scene of insurrection 
at Dothehoys Hall, where Mrs, S queers, upon her 
knees, with pinioned arms, is forced to drink gulps 
of her own nauseous treacle, and Master Wackford 
Squeers is held head down in a sticky basin of this 
delightful beverage. 

The boyish soul of Dickens delighted in this 
scene of riot, and it was this same youthful spirit 
in him which got into his books and made them 
live. Here he was — only twenty-six — on the 
threshold of his life, and the pinnacle of his great- 
ness. The youth in him, crushed and hidden in 
boyhood, bubbled over now, stirred into quicker 
life by the man's experience. At an age when most 
men begin, he had achieved, and there was more, 
much more, to come. 



CHAPTER VII. 

MASTER HUMPHREr's FIRST TALE. 




HEN an author becomes enormously pop- 
ular, as Charles Dickens did in his early 
youth, the real man is apt to be over- 
looked in the public interest which clings 
about him. But this young man was tasting all 
the sweets in life. Just before beginning " Nich- 
olas Nickleby " in March, 1838, his second child 
was born, a little girl whom he called Mary, better 
known to the world who knew Dickens, as Mamie, 
and named, of course, after that other Mary, whose 
memory was always fresh. Great events — such 
as the coming of a new daughter or the beginning 
of a new book — were always celebrated by a long, 
hard horseback ride, and on the occasion of Mamie's 
birth, the two inseparables, Forster and Dickens, 
rode fifteen miles out on the Great North Road, 
dined at the " Red Lion " in Barnet, and brought 
their much-enduring horses limping home. 

So there was a new daughter a month before 
the opening chapter of " Nickleby," and twenty- 
two months later, in October, 1839, the month after 
its completion, little Kate Dickens came to join 
her sister. Charles, Mary, and Kate, three names 

125 



126 CHARLES DICKENS. 

SO happily associated with his own life, were the 
names of his children, and in the family history 
these three stand prominently forth from among 
the ten children who came to him in the course 
of the years. 

In November, 1838, when " Nickleby " was in 
its early installments, one Edward Stirling chopped 
it up to suit his own purposes, and, making a farce 
out of it, produced it with a cast of clever actors 
at the Adelphi Theater. The author even had the 
impertinence to dedicate the play to Dickens, and 
we are informed on good authority that Dickens 
saw it and was much pleased with the acting. The 
same thing was done with " Oliver Twist," and yet 
the author could do nothing to protect himself 
under the then existing copyright laws in England, 
and anyone could " adapt " who chanced to be clever 
at that sort of stealing. 

In March, 1839, Dickens established his mother 
and father in a pretty cottage at Alphingham, a 
mile from Exeter, and took much boyish delight 
in beautifying and furnishing it. The name of the 
little home was Mile-End Cottage — "and if they 
are not pleased with it, I shall be grievously disap- 
pointed," he said to one of his friends. To another 
he wrote: 

" The house is on the high-road to Plymouth, 
and though in the very heart of Devonshire, there 
is as much long stage and posting life as you would 
find in Piccadilly. The situation is charming. 



MASTER HUMPHREY'S FIRST TALE. 127 

Meadows in front, an orchard running parallel to 
the garden hedge, richly wooded hills closing in 
the prospect behind, and away to the left, before a 
splendid view of the hill on which Exeter is sit- 
uated, the Cathedral towers rising up into the sky 
in the most picturesque manner possible. I don't 
think I ever saw so cheerful and pleasant a spot.'* 

And this is the place where Nicholas Nickleby 
settled his mother and Kate, described in Mrs. 
Nickleby s graphic style as " the beautiful little 
thatched white house, one storey high, covered all 
over with ivy and creeping plants, with an exquisite 
little porch with twining honeysuckles and all sorts 
of things." 

The house where the greater part of " Nicholas 
Nickleby" was written. No. 48 Doughty Street, 
is the only London home of the novelist which 
remains unchanged in appearance through the years. 
Some few chapters, however, were written at Elm 
Cottage, Twickenham, and in November, 1839, 
two months after the completion of " Nicholas 
Nickleby," he moved to No. i Devonshire Terrace, 
Regent's Park, which he occupied until 185 1, and 
where some of the happiest years of his life were 
spent. 

The habit of writing serial stories had taken a 
firm hold upon Dickens. They seemed to please 
his readers and keep up their interest. Having 
resigned the editorship of Bentley's Miscellany 
sometime after the publication of " Oliver Twist," 



128 CHARLES DICKENS. 

that active, restless mind of his was quick to seize 
on a new idea, and the character of a certain Master 
Humphrey began to take shape and color in his 
vivid imagination. 

The real Master Humphrey was a worthy clock- 
maker at Barnard Castle, Durham, who, when about 
sixteen years of age, fashioned the timepiece which 
Dickens afterwards made famous as " Master 
Humphrey's Clock." When he was traveling 
among the Yorkshire schools, he saw this clock 
standing just within the doorway of Humphrey's 
little shop, for Barnard Castle lay upon his route, 
and the quaint character and still quainter clock 
roused his interest. The idea popped into his head 
to wind up Master Humphrey's Clock and give the 
name to a new periodical to be issued weekly, so 
the stories which he proposed to write in future 
could come closer and more frequently to his 
readers. 

This Master Humphrey was supposed to sit 
always beside his Clock in the chimney-corner, a 
serene, quiet, patient old man, slightly deformed, 
but sweet-natured through it all, and full of mem- 
ories from childhood to old age, such as old men 
have. He was not friendless, but he was some- 
what lonely, and from his crippled childhood he had 
been wont to keep a little apart from others. As 
a boy he had felt very keenly the difference between 
himself and other children. He says of himself : " I 
used frequently to dream of it, and now my heart 



MASTER HUMPHREY'S FIRST TALE. 129 

aches for that child as if I had never been he, when 
I think how often he awoke from some fairy 
change to his old form, and sobbed himself to sleep 
again." 

Dickens always had a great fondness for little 
lame boys, his own nephew — his sister Fanny's 
son — was a delicate little cripple, a gentle, patient 
child, who served as a model for many beautiful 
portraits, notably Paul Domhey and Tiny Tim, 

Master Humphrey goes on to explain that all 
his life he had felt a strange fondness for the old 
furniture in his room; he regarded each piece as 
an old friend, and no money could express its value 
to him. He tells us : 

" Chief and first among all these is my Clock — 
my old, cheerful, companionable Clock. How can 
I ever convey to others an idea of the comfort and 
consolation that this old Clock has been for years 
to me! 

" It is associated with my earliest recollections. 
It stood upon the staircase at home nigh sixty years 
ago. I like it for that, but it is not on that account, 
nor because it is a quaint old thing, in a huge oaken 
case curiously and richly carved, that I prize it as 
I do; I inchne to it as if it were alive and could 
understand and give me back the love I bear it." 

What old Master Humphrey liked about his 
Clock was its voice, its cheerful way of ticking the 
minutes and seconds, its clear, bell-like ringing of 
the hour. It was almost human, and was known 



I30 ~ CHARLES DICKENS. 

throughout the little village where the old man lived 
as '' Master Humphrey's Clock." 

Now in the dark closet where the pendulum 
swung, were piles of dusty papers, closely written 
manuscripts placed there from time to time by 
Master Humphrey and the deaf gentleman, his con- 
stant associate, and these were given to the world 
of readers, once a week, through the mouth of 
Master Humphrey himself. It was a quaint, fan- 
tastic idea, and there was much of good reading in 
the few numbers which were published, but the 
public felt defrauded; there was no story from 
the pen of Charles Dickens, and the circulation of 
the new weekly dwindled so alarmingly that at last 
Master Humphrey was obliged to draw a thicker 
manuscript from the pendulum closet, and, as he 
carefully unrolled it, smoothing a page or two here 
and there, something dropped from between the 
leaves. It was the pictured face of a child, fair 
and innocent, with clustering curls and deep blue, 
almost unearthly eyes. This was little Nellie 
Trent, whose Grandfather kept The Old Curiosity 
Shop, which gave the story its name, and this was 
Dickens's promise fulfilled, to his readers, who 
ceased clamoring — like Oliver Twist — for more, 
the minute he gave them what they wanted. And 
this is also Dickens's first tribute to little girlhood. 
Around this small, delicate young creature, great 
events darted and whirled like heavy clouds. With 
none to think for her, none to care for her but a 



MASTER HUMPHREY'S FIRST TALE. 131 

half -crazed old man, the child moved through the 
story like a fairy. 

Many argue that the character of Little Nell is 
forced and unnatural, that no little girls ever ex- 
isted who v^ere quite as perfect as Little Nell, but, 
if they will consider, they may change their minds. 
A ray of light burns with wonderful brilliance 
against a background of pitchy darkness, so the 
white soul of this child, which was as the white 
soul of many another child, looked all the whiter 
for the dense shadows of sin from which it emerged. 
Dickens drew this child with the hand of love, 
forging another link to the memory of Mary 
Hogarth. She was to be the one pure creature in 
the turmoil and struggle of the life about her, and 
the fate which had snatched their home from them 
certainly spread a queer feast for the old man and 
the little girl, as they wandered through villages 
and rested at wayside inns, sleeping often in the 
open air under the stars. On they plodded, foot- 
sore and weary, from day to day, anxious only to 
leave London far away, not caring where their steps 
might lead them — the feeble old man and the 
desperate child who was eager not only to save 
him from his creditors, but to save him from him- 
self. It is indeed no wonder that Little NelVs 
small body could not keep pace with her indomitable 
courage. 

We meet her first, or at least Master Humphrey 
met her (since he is supposed to tell the story) in 



132 CHARLES DICKENS. 

the heart of the big City of London, quite alone 
at night. 

" I turned hastily around," he said, " and found 
at my elbow a pretty little girl, who begged to be 
directed to a certain street at a considerable dis- 
tance, and indeed in quite another quarter of the 
town. 

" * It is a very long way from here,' said I, * my 
child.' 

" * I know that, sir,' she replied timidly, * I am 
afraid it is a very long way ; for I came from there 
to-night.' 

" ' Alone ? ' said I in some surprise. 

" ' Oh, yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little 
frightened now, for I have lost my road.' 

" * And what made you ask it of me? Suppose 
I should tell you wrong ? ' 

" * I am sure you will not do that,' said the little 
creature, ' you are such a very old gentleman and 
walk so slow yourself.' 

" I cannot describe how much I was impressed 
by this appeal and the energy with which it was 
made, which brought a tear into the child's clear eye, 
and made her slight figure tremble as she looked 
up into my face. 

'' ' Come,' said I, ' I'll take you there.' " 

So Little Nell — for it was she — put her hand 
confidingly into Master Humphrey's, and so the 
tale began. 

The place where Little Nell lived " was one of 



MASTER HUMPHREY'S FIRST TALE. 133 

those receptacles for old and curious things which 
seem to crouch in odd corners of the town, and to 
hide their musty treasures from the public eye in 
jealousy and distrust." And here she was content 
to stay with an old, old man " whose haggard aspect 
was wonderfully suited to the place; he might have 
groped among old churches and tombs, and deserted 
houses, and gathered all the spoils with his own 
hands. There was nothing in the whole collection 
but was in keeping with himself : nothing that looked 
older or more worn than he.'' 

We cannot marvel, then, that in such strange 
surroundings a quaint old-fashioned child should 
blossom, a child with the mother-love strong within 
her, to be lavished on the childish old man; that 
when the time came for sacrifice, she should be 
the victim, and that she should hold "her soli- 
tary way among a crowd of wild, grotesque com- 
panions; the only pure, fresh, youthful object in 
the throng." 

Everybody who is anybody has a grandfather, 
or has had one, or maybe two, and grandfathers 
usually are fine old gentlemen, who are given to 
spoiling and petting and making much of their 
grandchildren, telling them stories of earlier times, 
and making themselves so entertaining and agree- 
able that an hour spent by them in the nursery 
is a red-letter hour, indeed! But this grandfather 
of Little Nell's was a very ghostly old fellow. To 
begin with, he never answered to a name through- 
10 



134 CHARLES DICKENS. 

out the book; he was called "the old man" or 
*' grandfather/' as the case might be; but if he had 
a name he shut it up in his withered old breast, and 
no one was any the wiser. Even when the single 
gentleman, his brother, went to hunt for him, we 
are still in the dark, for nobody knew him save as 
the single gentleman, until he added to his title 
that of "the old man's brother." Little Nell's 
mother was the old man's daughter, so he could 
not lay claim to the name of Trent, which 
was hers, hence he moved close by the child's 
side, all through the story — a gaunt and nameless 
shadow. 

At fourteen, Nell was a beautiful little creature, 
so beautiful, indeed, that men began to look at her 
with an eye to marriage. Her own brother, a 
precious young villain, had promised her small 
hand to a certain Mr. Richard Swiveller, his friend 
and crony, and Daniel Qnilp, the dwarf villain, 
whom Dickens had painted in heavy black smudges, 
also cast his eyes upon her and wondered if she 
would not make a very pretty second Mrs. Quilp, 
when he got rid of Number One. 

All this wicked plotting which went on about her, 
even while it could not mar her sweetness, made 
her grave and serious beyond her years, and the 
absence of any young companions made her turn 
to her grandfather with all the wealth of her love, 
and, when circumstances drove them from The Old 
Curiosity Shop to become wanderers, it was this 



MASTER HUMPHREY'S FIRST TALE. 135 

wonderful protecting love of hers which shielded 
him and sheltered him along their way. 

We must not forget all this when we read about 
Little Nell and complain that she is too good for 
this earth. All her life she had taken care of her 
grandfather. She it was who planned their flight; 
she it was who kept the few gold pieces — all they 
possessed in the wide world — and time and time 
again she saved the weak old man from his beset- 
ting sins, the love of money and of gambling. 

Biit the life told upon this pretty home-child; 
as her soul grew stronger, her body grew weaker; 
the long tramps, the exposure to rain and wind, the 
heavy night air, would have killed a stronger per- 
son, and so Little Nell sickened, and, after much 
weariness and pain, she died, when not quite seven- 
teen, and Dickens mourned for her with all the 
grief of his great heart. He hated to have her 
die; he lingered over the last part of her short 
life, and lived over again the death of Mary 
Hogarth. 

Yet Little Nell's adventures were not all sad, 
some were indeed most laughable. The two quiet 
wanderers fell in with an odd lot of people. Their 
first acquaintances ran a Punch and Judy show, and 
went from village to village with their little theater, 
Nell and her grandfather trudging along, glad to 
have found even these wayside friends. 

At the " Jolly Sandboys' '' inn, they came across 
the owner of a band of trained dogs, also exhibit- 



136 CHARLES DICKENS. 

ing along the road, and the dogs themselves were 
allowed to enter and make themselves at home. 
Dickens was always very happy in his descriptions 
of dogs, and Jerry, the trainer, certainly knew his 
family. Nell wished to throw some meat to the 
hungry group, who were patiently waiting, on their 
hind legs, but he stopped her: 

" ' No, my dear, no, not an atom from anybody's 
hand but mine, if you please. That dog,' said 
Jerry, pointing out the old leader of the troop, and 
speaking in a terrible voice, * lost a half-penny 
to-day. He goes without his supper.' 

" The unfortunate creature dropped upon his 
forelegs directly, wagged his tail, and looked im- 
ploringly at his master. 

" * You must be more careful, sir,' said Jerry, 
walking coolly to the chair where he had placed 
the organ, and setting the stop. * Come here. 
Now, sir, you play away at that while we have 
supper, and leave off if you dare.' 

" The dog immediately began to grind the most 
mournful music. His master, having shown him 
the whip, resumed his seat and called up the others, 
who, at his directions, formed in a row, standing 
upright as a file of soldiers. 

" * Now, gentlemen,' said Jerry, looking at them 
attentively, ' the dog whose name's called, eats. 
The dogs whose names ain't called, keeps quiet. 
Carlo ! ' 

" The lucky dog whose name w^as called, snapped 



MASTER HUMPHREY'S FIRST TALE. 137 

Up the morsel thrown towards him, but none of 
the others moved a muscle. In this manner they 
were fed at the discretion of their master. Mean- 
while, the dog in disgrace ground hard at the 
organ, sometimes in quick time, sometimes in slow, 
but never leaving off for an instant." 

As a boy, there is no doubt that Dickens was 
fairly intimate with these traveling show-people, 
who wandered about the Kentish country where 
he lived, for he seemed familiar with all the tricks 
of their poor trades, and kind-hearted Mrs. Jarley, 
the proprietress of the far-famed Wax Works, was 
most certainly a portrait from life. 

But in spite of our fondness for Little Nell and 
our sorrow over her untimely death, we find our- 
selves making excuses for her from the very begin- 
ning, and this was not really what the author 
intended. Without realizing what he had done, he 
had turned a charming little heroine into an uncon- 
scious little prig, and few people — even to this 
day — can be induced to look at her through his 
eyes. 

Great authors often unthinkingly do these 
things. It is told of Thackeray that one of his 
characters in " The Newcomes," possessed a great 
vice, of which he was ignorant. This was a cer- 
tain Mrs. Mackenme, otherwise known as The 
Campaigner. " Thackeray didn't know it, but she 
drank!" declared one of his friends, and no doubt 
she was right. So with Dickens; he started out to 



'I38 CHARLES DICKENS. 

create an exceptional child, and he did; but it was 
not the child he thought of so tenderly, it was the 
little slavey in the Brass's establishment, known to 
fame as the Marchioness, who was indeed the real 
heroine of " The Old Curiosity Shop." 

The story, indeed, had little to do with its title, 
for beyond our first glimpse of the dingy, dusty 
old place, we see nothing more of it. In fact, it 
is to be doubted if the Marchioness knew a thing 
about it, for when first seen she was picking up, 
literally, the very crumbs of existence in the house- 
hold of Sampson Brass and his flinty sister Sally, 
who lived in a small dark house and practiced law 
in a mean, cheap way. They were not very pleas- 
ant people — this brother and sister — but they ran 
a pretty lively business — Miss Sally knowing quite 
enough of the law to be her brother's able 
assistant — until Mr. Richard Swiveller came upon 
the scene and took much of the business out of her 
hands. 

As Sampson Brass's head clerk, he was often 
left in charge in the big, dirty office, and here he 
was startled one day by a loud knocking at the door. 

" ' Come in ! ' he called. 

'' ' Oh, please,' said a little voice, very low down 
in the doorway, * will you come and show the 
lodgings ? ' 

" Dick leaned on the table and descried a small, 
slipshod girl, in a dirty, coarse apron and bib, which 
left nothing of her visible but her face and feet ; she 



MASTER HUMPHREY'S FIRST TALE. 139 

might as well have been dressed in a violin-case. 

"' * Why, who are you? ' said Dick. 

*^ To which the only reply was, * Oh, please, will 
you come and show the lodgings ? ' 

" There never was such an old-fashioned child 
in her looks and manner. She must have been at 
work from her cradle. She seemed as much afraid 
of Dick as Dick was amazed at her. 

" * I haven't got anything to do with the lodgings,' 
said Dick. * Tell 'em to call again.' 

" * Oh, but please will you come and show the 
lodgings,' returned the girl ; * it's eighteen shillings 
a week, and us finding plate and linen. Boots and 
clothes is extra, and fires in winter-time is eight- 
pence a day.' 

'* * Why don't you show 'em yourself? You 
seem to know all about 'em,' said Dick. 

" ' Miss Sally said I wasn't to, because people 
wouldn't believe the attendance was good, if they 
saw how small I was first.' 

" * Well, but they'll see how small you are after- 
wards, won't they ? ' said Dick. 

" * Ah ! but then they'll have taken 'em for a 
fortnight certain,' replied the child, with a shrewd 
look ; ' and people don't like moving when they're 
once settled.' 

" ' This is a queer sort of thing,' muttered Dick, 
rising. * What do you mean to say you are — 
the cook ? ' 

'''Yes, I do plain cooking!' replied the child. 



I40 CHARLES DICKENS. 

* rm housemaid, too ; I do all the work of the 
house/ " 

She was a pathetic, meager little figure, a pack of 
skin and bones, topped by a sharp, thin face, out 
of which the eyes looked hungrily. She was so 
small — yet for all that, so alive, so active, that 
one was quite sure she was telling the truth when 
she boasted of doing all the housework. 

Dickens was particularly happy in the drawing 
of this remarkable child, chiefly because, as we 
know, the little maid-of -all- work who came with 
the family from the Chatham workhouse rose in 
his mind as the living portrait of his poor little 
Marchioness. What hopes and aspirations were 
hidden beneath the dingy apron and the extinguish- 
ing cap, who can say! This small person knew 
nothing about herself; never within her recollection 
had she owned a name ; her age, too, was a mystery, 
she might have been six or sixteen or sixty — she 
was so young and so old. She had not been 
brought up in the straight and narrow road of 
virtue, and the Brass household was not exactly 
the place where virtue had its own reward. Her 
inquisitive eye being on a level with the key-hole, 
much useful information came to her through that 
convenient opening. Her real acquaintance with 
Mr. Richard Szviveller was the outcome of this 
peeping. The poor child saw him playing a soli- 
tary game of cribbage in the deserted oflice, late 
one evening, and he caught the gleam of her eye 



MASTER HUMPHREY'S FIRST TALE. 141 

at the key-hole. " He stole softly to the door and 
pounced upon her before she was aware of his ap- 
proach. 

" * Oh I didn't mean any harm, indeed, upon 
my word I didn't,' cried the small servant, strug- 
gling like a much larger one. ' It's so very dull 
downstairs. Please don't you tell upon me, please 
don't.' 

Tell upon you ! ' said Dick. ' Do you mean 
to say you were looking through the key-hole for 
company ? ' 

Yes, upon my word, I was,' replied the small 
servant. 

How long have you been cooling your eye 
there ? ' said Dick. 

Oh, ever since you first began to play them 
cards and long before.' " 

The kind heart of Mr. Swiveller was touched, 
and he asked her in ; but the small maid was afraid 
of Miss Sally's wrath if she left her kitchen. 
Whereupon her new friend decided to go down and 
visit her ; also to teach her the secrets of that won- 
derful game. 

Something beat tumultuously beneath the apron 
— it was the grateful heart of the little servant, 
for Mr. Swiveller not only taught her cribbage, 
but, seeing how thin she was, decided that she 
needed bread and meat, and spread a delicious treat 
before her bewildered, hungry eyes, and suddenly 
within that same little heart sprang a feeling of 



142 CHARLES DICKENS. 

dog-like devotion for the idle, happy-go-lucky law- 
yer's clerk, who in his facetious manner dubbed 
her the Marchioness^ and thereafter treated her 
with a courtliness which, whether real or feigned, 
pleased the child exceedingly. 

Even a kitchen-maid may have great moments, 
and the Marchioness gloried in this new name; it 
suggested coronets and satin gowns and dainty 
slippers, to replace the cap and apron, and slipshod 
shoes and stockings out at the heels; and to her, 
the shabby and seedy Richard, " down on his 
luck " and out at the elbows, was a very prince 
among men, which showed that at least the small 
servant had an imagination. 

Indeed, these two obscure, rather common-place 
people, give just that human touch to the whole 
story without which there would have been neither 
light nor color. Qiiilp was a goblin; the Brasses, 
attending ghouls; and Little Nell, a flitting wraith 
— a ghost — an angel ; the single gentleman, the 
Garlands, even Kit, were but a supporting back- 
ground for the carefully planned plot; but Dick 
Swiveller and his Marchioness, ignorant of every- 
thing going on about them, yet proved the most 
important link in the story, because of the Mar- 
chioness's propensity for looking and listening 
through key-holes. Not that it is right to do such 
things, but when one has been locked for the night, 
in a big, dark kitchen, and accidentally finds an- 
other key, it is an easy matter to make one's escape, 



MASTER HUMPHREY'S FIRST TALE. 143 

and many a night this small elfin child enjoyed the 
freedom of the house, quite unknown to her hard- 
hearted jailer. It was on such an occasion that 
the Marchioness, hearing voices beyond a certain 
closed door, put her eye to the key-hole and then 
her ear, gleaning thereby much general informa- 
tion which proved useful in the course of the story. 

It was when Dick Siviveller lay at the point of 
death in his lonely lodgings that the real gold shone 
forth in the character of the forlorn little Mar- 
chioness. For the last time making use of her 
secret key, she slipped from the house, found the 
sick man's lodgings, and, calling herself his sister, 
went boldly upstairs and took charge. Faithfully 
she stuck to her post — night and day — until Mr. 
Swiveller rewarded her devotion by opening his 
eyes and proceeding to get better. Poor little 
Marchioness! Such a little bag of bones to hold 
such tender, human feelings! We cannot help 
laughing at her and loving her at the same time. 

And this is where Dickens was at his best ; there 
was no striving after effect — no trying to paint 
a picture, as in the case of dear, saintly Little Nell. 
This little waif sprang out of the darkness, a fairy 
in disguise, a real thinking, feeling child, for all 
her wizen, old-woman ways, and to Dick Swiveller, 
lying weak and helpless in his bed, she seemed a 
veritable angel. No doubt he could see celestial 
wings sprouting gloriously from the thin shoulder- 
blades, and we are glad to know that her Grace, 



144 CHARLES DICKENS. 

the Marchioness, attained her heart's desire in the 
end. 

It is strange how one's dearest hopes are often 
miscarried. All the love and devotion and tender- 
ness in Dickens's heart, was poured into the life 
and death of Little Nell. Towards the close of the 
story he became very ill — probably the result of 
overwork — for Master Humphrey's Clock proved 
a very serious undertaking, and the task of pre- 
senting an installment of '' The Old Curiosity 
Shop " every week was stupendous. The killing 
of Little Nell nearly broke his heart; he loved the 
child as if she was his own; her death cast its 
shadow upon him; and the vision of Mary Hogarth 
opened all the old gateways of his grief. 

Altogether the story was a brilliant success; it 
satisfied so many in so many diffierent ways. Orig- 
inally intended as a short tale of half-a-dozen chap- 
ters, it grew to much more imposing size, from 
the very needs of the characters, and it is pretty 
certain that when good Master Humphrey com- 
menced to read from the yellow manuscript he 
found in the old case where the pendulum swung, 
he had no idea how long it would take to reach 
the end. And that the story lives to-day, and is 
loved alike by young and old, is the best tribute 
to its worth. 

After Dickens's death, far away in the Sierras, 
our own Bret Harte wrote the following lines to 
his memory and that of Little Nell: 



MASTER HUMPHREY'S FIRST TALE. 145 

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 

The river sang below; 
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 

Their minarets of snow: 

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted 

The ruddy tints of health 
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted 

In the fierce race for wealth ; 

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure 

A hoarded volume drew. 
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure 

To hear the tale anew; 

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, 

And as the fire-light fell, 
He read aloud the book wherein the Master 

Had writ of " Litttle Nell." 

Perhaps *twas boyish fancy, for the reader 

Was youngest of them all, 
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 

A silence seemed to fall; 

The fir-trees gathering closer in the shadows. 

Listened in every spray. 
While the whole camp, with " Nell " on English 
meadows, 

Wandered and lost their way. 

And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken 

As by some spell divine — 
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken 

From out the gusty pine. 



146 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire; 

And he who wrought that spell? 
Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, 

Ye have one tale to tell : 

Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story 
Blend with the breath that thrills 

With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory 
That fills the Kentish hills. 

And on that grave where English oak and holly 

And laurel wreaths entwine. 
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, — 

This spray of Western pine ! 



CHAPTER VIIL 

DICKENS AND THE HISTORICAL NOVEL. 




ASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK 
ticked away most industriously from 
April 21, 1840, until November 27, 1841. 
There were eighty-eight weekly num- 
bers in all, thoroughly illustrated by the artists 
who made Dickens's works a specialty; and prob- 
ably this enterprising periodical would have lived 
much longer, had Dickens been able to bear 
the continual strain upon his energy. Once he had 
fallen ill during the writing of " The Old Curiosity 
Shop," but he never missed a weekly installment. 
He was far from well, however, when he began to 
think of another serial. The scene was, as usual, 
to be laid around London, but the time, 1775-80, 
was remote enough to give him an historical 
background, and the half-forgotten London Riots 
had never — to his knowledge — found their way 
into fiction ; they never made much stir in history, 
for they were promptly quelled at the very begin- 
ning, and Lord George Gordon, the leader, was 
thrown into prison. It was a war between the 
Protestants and the Papists, the mob was Protes- 
tant, and the war-cry " No Popery ! " rang men- 

147 



148 CHARLES DICKENS. 

acingly through the London streets. Poor Lord 
Gordon was hopelessly mad when his brief glory 
came to an end; indeed, he may have been on the 
verge of insanity when the Riots broke out. At 
any rate, it was a mad cause with a mad ending, 
and it is little wonder that the hero of '* Barnaby 
Rudge " should be a witless fellow, in short, Barn^ 
aby himself, so impressed was the author with the 
madness of it all. 

Dickens was from first to last in the heart of 
the mob; being of the people, he saw through their 
eyes, and through the vivid scenes which led to 
the burning of Newgate, it was the feelings of 
the mob with which he had to do. Even in a state 
of frenzy he knew the people — knew how a breath 
would sway them, how a word would stir them — 
knew how childish, how idiotic a mob may be ; and 
so he drew Barnaby Rudge, and thrust the idiot 
into the midst of it. 

This was the second of Master Humphrey's tales, 
and at its close the Clock ran down. Too much 
pressure had been put upon it, too much work 
upon the editor, and with a few closing words 
Master Humphrey shut the door where the pendu- 
lum swung — and spoke no more. 

It is rather curious that Dickens wrote but two 
novels with historical backgrounds : " Barnaby 
Rudge," a tale of hot-headed youth, where the 
mob rent the air with boyish shouts and rough 
laughter, and " A Tale of Two Cities," where 



DICKENS AND THE HISTORICAL NOVEL. 149 

sullen hate burned low and red, where there was 
no laughter, but the muffled roar of angry men 
and women — a mob of London and a mob of 
Paris, with nearly twenty years between the writ- 
mg; the first — the work of eager young enthu- 
siasm, the last, of mature thought and perfect art. 
The magic pen of Scott had burrowed into the 
history of centuries ago, and had told of people 
and happenings in those remote times, describing 
manners and customs far removed from those of 
his own day, showing us pictures upon which even 
now we love to gaze. Dickens did more; he took 
us by the hand and drew us with him into the very 
midst of yesterday — the yesterday of history, but 
not so far away as to make the people seem un- 
real. 

"Barnaby Rudge " opens in 1775, and "A Tale 
of Two Cities " but a few years later, during the 
last years of the French Revolution. There is a 
long step between Barnahy and Sydney Carton, 
yet both heroes stand out very sharply, the lovable 
idiot— with his shock of red hair, his wide-open 
staring eyes, his fantastic dress, and the still more 
fantastic bird, which was his inseparable companion 
— and the man of fine intellect, befogged by too 
much wine, dragged down, indeed, to the lowest 
depths, only to be lifted by a great deed, to the 
very heights. 

No two stories could be more unlike, yet the 
life and motion seem the same; only in "A Tale 



11 



150 CHARLES DICKENS. 

of Two Cities " the greatness of the theme cast 
all the actors in heroic mold. We know that the 
tragedy of the French Revolution existed and 
blighted that fair land, while the Gordon Riots were 
but a tempest in a teapot, just a few hangings at 
the end — and all was over. 

" Barnaby Rudge " is bubbling with youth ; it is 
the work of a vigorous young man, and it deals 
with men of types — ranging from the courtly old 
villain, Sir John Chester, to the fine figure and 
vacant mind of poor Barnaby, who inspires our 
love and pity as he dances his way through the 
book. 

Strangely full of wisdom is this idiot boy some- 
times, a poet, too, in his childish, simple nature, 
fond of the outer world, quick to see the beauties 
of a sunrise or a sunset, a flower or a tree; adoring 
his widowed mother, but giving the best of his af- 
fection to Grip, the raven, who was always with 
him wherever he traveled — and Barnaby' s restless 
feet were always traveling somewhere. Often he 
wandered for days, and Grip went, too, sometimes 
perched upon his master's shoulder, sometimes in 
the basket which Barnaby always carried stocked 
with food for his favorite, and a bite for himself. 

This was a remarkable bird, and, if ever there 
was a portrait drawn from life, Grip's was surely 
one. Dickens owned two of these birds; the first 
of which was actually named Grip. This raven 
was the delight and terror of the family circle — 



DICKENS AND THE HISTORICAL NOVEL. 151 

but he came to an untimely end. He had been ail- 
ing for some days — as Topping, the coachman, 
reported — but somehow Dickens was quite un- 
prepared for the end, which came suddenly. He 
wrote to his friend, Maclise, a full account of the 
Raven's last hours : 

" You will be greatly shocked and grieved to 
hear that the Raven is no more. He expired to- 
day at a few minutes after twelve o'clock. He had 
been ailing for a few days, but we anticipated no 
serious result, conjecturing that a portion of the 
white paint he swallowed last summer might be 
lingering about his vitals. Yesterday afternoon he 
was taken so much worse that I sent an express 
for the medical gentleman, who promptly attended 
and administered a powerful dose of castor oil. 
Under the influence of this medicine, he recovered 
so far as to be able, at 8 o'clock p. m., to bite Top- 
ping. This morning at daybreak he appeared 
better and partook plentifully of some warm gruel, 
the flavor of which he appeared to relish. Toward 
eleven o'clock he was so much worse that it was 
found necessary to muflle the stable knocker. At 
half past or thereabouts, he was heard talking to 
himself about the horse and Topping's family, and 
to add some incoherent expressions which are sup- 
posed to have been either a foreboding of his ap- 
proaching dissolution or some wishes relative to 
the disposal of his Httle property, consisting chiefly 
of half -pence which he had buried in different 



152 CHARLES DICKENS. 

parts of the garden. On the clock striking twelve 
he appeared slightly agitated, but he soon recovered, 
walked twice or thrice along the coach house, 
stopped to bark, staggered, and exclaimed, ^ Halloa, 
old Girl!' (his favorite expression) and died. 
He behaved throughout with decent fortitude, 
equanimity, and self-possession. I deeply regret 
that, being in ignorance of his danger, I did not 
attend to receive his last instructions, 

" Something remarkable about his eyes occa- 
sioned Topping to run for the doctor at twelve. 
When they returned together — our friend was 
gone. It was the medical gentleman who informed 
me of his decease. He did it with caution and 
delicacy, preparing me by the remark that * a jolly 
queer start had taken place.' I am not wholly 
free from suspicions of poison. A malicious 
butcher has been heard to say that he would * do ' 
for him. His plea was that he would not be mo- 
lested in taking orders ... by any bird that 
wore a tail. . . . Kate is as well as can be ex- 
pected. The children seem rather glad of it. He 
bit their ankles, but that was in play." 

This letter was sealed with an enormous mourn- 
ing badge and sent to the famous artist, who im- 
mortalized Grip's entrance into a new life by a 
wonderful pen and ink sketch of the Raven, stiff 
in death, while his soul — represented by several 
little white-winged ravens — is soaring in the 
clouds to that sphere where good ravens go. 



DICKENS AND THE HISTORICAL NOVEL. 153 

As " Barnaby Rudge " was still unfinished, an- 
other Grip had to be found. He tells us in the 
preface to the book that a friend of his in York- 
shire discovered an older and more gifted raven, 
at a village public-house, which he purchased from 
the landlord and sent up to him. He writes : 

" The first act of this Sage was to administer to 
the effects of his predecessor, by disinterring all 
the cheese and half-pence he had buried in the 
garden, a work of immense labor and research, to 
which he devoted all the energies of his mind. 
When he had achieved this task, he applied him- 
self to the acquisition of stable language, in which 
he became such an adept that he would perch out- 
side my w^indow and drive imaginary horses with 
great skill all day. Perhaps even I never saw him 
at his best, for his former master sent his duty 
with him, ' and if I wished the bird to come out 
very strong, would I be so good as to show him 
a drunken man' — which I never did, having (un- 
fortunately) none but sober people at hand. . . . 
Once I met him unexpectedly about half-a-mile 
from my house, walking down the middle of a 
pubHc street, attended by a pretty large crowd, and 
spontaneously exhibiting the whole of his accom- 
plishments. His gravity under those trying cir- 
cumstances I can never forget, nor the extraor- 
dinary gallantry with which, refusing to be brought 
home, he defended himself behind a pump until 
overpowered by numbers." 



154 CHARLES DICKENS. 

It is wonderful that raven number two lived as 
long as he did, for his master records the most 
remarkable diet: he dug the mortar out of the 
garden wall, ate the putty from the frames that 
held the window-panes, and swallowed in splinters 
most of a wooden staircase; and after three years 
he, too, died, quietly, before the kitchen fire. 

" He kept his eye to the last upon the meat as 
it roasted, and suddenly turned over on his back, 
with a sepulchral cry of ' Cuckoo ! ' Since then 
I have been ravenless." 

The first and best beloved raven was stuffed, 
and lived in a glass case in his master's study. 
After Dickens died, there was a great sale at Gad's 
Hill, and the bird — in the heat and excitement of 
the bidding — brought many hundred pounds. 

All through the story flitted this raven, a bird 
of omen, croaking out queer things that seemed al- 
most impossible for a bird to say, yet the power 
of speech was undeniably his, and his presence — 
always with this idiot boy — seemed to bestow 
upon poor Barnaby a little of the sense he lacked. 

Edgar Allan Poe — who was one of Dickens's 
famous American critics — may probably have 
obtained his first conception of " The Raven " in 
this way, for the poem did not appear till 1845, 
while " Barnaby Rudge " was published in Mas- 
ter Humphrey's Clock in 1841. 

There was a dark and gruesome mystery run- 
ning through this tale, but there were some bits of 



DICKENS AND THE HISTORICAL NOVEL. 155 

color, even the glint of rainbow tints round little 
Dolly Varden. Charming, simple, and very young 
— Miss Dolly soon became the toast of the town, 
after she had glided from beneath the pen-point of 
the author. There were only five women men- 
tioned in the book — the pale-faced mother of 
Barnaby, Mrs. Varden and her attendant. Miss 
Miggs, Emma Hare dale, and little Dolly, the streak 
of sunshine in the book. 

Having two little girls of his own, it was only 
natural that Dickens should bestow much attention 
upon the girls in his books. We see Dolly first 
peeping out of her bedroom window, a picture of 
youth and roguishness ; " a face lighted up by the 
loveliest pair of sparkling eyes that ever locksmith 
looked upon; the face of a pretty laughing girl; 
dimpled and fresh and healthful, the very imper- 
sonation of good humor and blooming beauty." 

Old Gabriel Varden, the jolly locksmith, consid- 
ered his little daughter the very light of his eyes, 
and, but for her, the old fellow would have had a 
sorry time of it at home; for Mrs. Varden was 
one of those good ladies with a perpetual chip on 
her shoulder, and Miss Miggs, her grim, gaunt 
handmaiden, saw that there was always a grievance 
on hand. 

" * Miggs IS a comfort to me, whatever she 
may be to others,' " said the suffering Mrs. 
Varden. 

" * She's no comfort to me,' cried Gabriel, made 



156 CHARLES DICKENS. 

bold by despair. * She's the misery of my life. 
She's all the plagues of Egypt in one.' 

"*0h, Doll, Doll,' said her good-natured father; 
* if you ever have a husband of your own — ' 

" Dolly glanced at the glass. 

" * Well, when you have,' said the locksmith, 
' never faint, my darling. More domestic unhap- 
piness comes of easy fainting, Doll, than from all 
the greater passions put together. Remember that, 
my dear, if you would be really happy, which you 
never can be if your husband isn't. And a word 
in your ear, my precious. Never have a Miggs 
about you ! ' 

" With this advice he kissed his blooming 
daughter on the cheek." 

Could anything be sweeter than Miss Dolly, 
ready and equipped for a ride to Chigwell, " in a 
smart little cherry-colored mantle, with a hood of 
the same drawn over her head, and on the top of 
that hood a little straw hat trimmed with cherry- 
colored ribbons, and worn the merest trifle on one 
side — just enough, in short, to make it the wicked- 
est and most provoking head-dress that ever ma- 
licious milliner devised. And not to speak of the 
manner in which those cherry-colored decorations 
brightened her eyes, or vied with her lips, or shed 
a new bloom on her face; she wore such a cruel 
little muff, and such a heart-rending pair of shoes, 
and was so surrounded and hemmed in, as it were. 



DICKENS AND THE HISTORICAL NOVEL. 157 

by aggravations, that when Mr. Tappertit (the ap- 
prentice) holding the horse's head, saw her come 
out of the house alone," he felt very much like 
running away with her, for the tiny little appren- 
tice was in love — be it known — with Miss Dolly 
Varden, who cared no more for him than for a 
fly upon the ceiling. Miss Dolly, moreover, was 
going for a ride with her father and mother, and 
naturally she must look her prettiest, for there 
were people to be met upon the road. 

" The chaise creaked upon its springs, and Mrs. 
Varden was inside ; and now it creaked again, and 
more than ever, and the blacksmith was inside; 
and now it bounded once as if its heart beat lightly, 
and Dolly was inside; and now it was gone and 
its place was empty, and he (Tappertit) and that 
dreary Miggs were standing in the street together." 

Little Dolly worked into the story by means of 
a letter which she was to deliver to the heroine, 
Miss Emma Haredale, at the Warren, the Hare- 
dale's home, some distance from the Maypole, the 
inn kept by John IVillet, where the Vardens 
stopped for dinner. And here we understand the 
reason of the cherry-colored ribbons and the be- 
witching tip-tilted hat, for Joe Willet, the son of 
the fat landlord, was undeniably fond of cherry 
ribbons and Dolly, while Dolly herself — well, she 
liked big, honest, open-hearted, handsome young 
fellows like Joe, and while it was very dreadful 
to be waylaid in the gathering gloom, by the rough 



158 CHARLES DICKENS. 

and surly Hugh, and have one's bracelet and a 
very precious letter stolen, it was very delightful 
to discover that rescue was near at hand in the 
person of Joe himself — to run to him and fling 
herself into the shelter of his strong arms. Pretty, 
charming Dolly Far den! 

Dickens had a portrait of her and of Kate 
Nickleby hanging in his study, but even without 
such a reminder Dolly would live in our memory 
through the very care with which Dickens him- 
self has painted her. 

The " Dolly Varden " style of dress was very 
much the fashion years ago when our mothers were 
young. The plain petticoat, over which was 
draped the flowered muslin or brocade, in full 
panniers on either side of the slender hips; the 
square-cut bodice with its full ruching, through 
which the white neck gleamed; and the elbow 
sleeves with the fall of a soft ruflle were very be- 
witching, and if the wearer chanced to be young 
and pretty — then hail to the memory of Dolly 
Varden! 

Dickens's best and prettiest heroines were small. 
The tall ladies in his books usually ran to bone and 
ugliness, and, with few exceptions, they were in- 
tensely disagreeable. And, though Charles Dickens, 
at the time of the writing of " Barnaby Rudge," 
was a very young father of two very little girls, he 
had a very definite notion of what a proper little 
girl should look like when she lengthened her 



DICKENS AND THE HISTORICAL NOVEL. 159 

dresses and put up her curls — and the picture of 
Dolly and Emma Haredale is a charming bit of 
contrast and color. 

" They strolled up and down the terrace walks, 
talking incessantly — at least, Dolly never left off 
once — and making that quarter of the sad and 
mournful house quite gay. Not that they talked 
loudly or laughed much, but they were both so 
very handsome, and it was such a breezy day, that 
their light dresses and dark curls appeared so free 
and joyous in their abandonment, and Emma was 
so fair and Dolly so rosy, and Emma so delicately 
shaped, and Dolly so plump, and, in short, there 
are no flowers for any garden like such flowers, 
let horticulturists say what they may, and both 
house and garden seemed to know it, and to 
brighten up sensibly." 

Perhaps the greatest contrast after all was be- 
tween pretty Dolly and Miss Miggs, better known 
as Miggs in the bosom of the Varden household. 
Dolly was turned seventeen, a favorite age with 
Dickens, and Miggs (let us be charitable) was 
doubtless ten years her senior — the slender, at- 
tenuated female of the type the novelist loved to 
caricature. Unconscious little Dolly had inspired 
a mad passion in the breast of Master Simon Tap- 
pertit, her father's apprentice; Miss Miggs had a 
secret passion for Simon, and consequently a se- 
cret dislike of poor little Dolly. Now the little 
Dolly of seventeen grew, in the course of five years. 



l6o CHARLES DICKENS. 

to be twenty-two, and, though there were lovers by 
the score, the saucy minx would have none of 
them. 

This same Dolly Varden, lovelier than ever, " was 
so whimsical and hard to please, that she was Dolly 
Varden still, all smiles and dimples and pleasant 
looks, and caring no more for the fifty or sixty 
young fellows who at that very moment were 
breaking their hearts to marry her, than if so many 
oysters had been crossed in love and opened after- 
ward." Dolly, indeed, had grown from child to 
woman, and big, handsome Joe Willet had been 
away near five years before she found out how 
much of her heart had gone with him. 

Miss Miggs was still faithful to the little appren- 
tice, who turned out to be a very war-like char- 
acter in the course of the story. Miss Miggs had 
many peculiarities: she always spoke in plurals, 
and turned on, at unexpected moments, the fount 
which supplied her ready tears. The following 
words, punctuated with sobs and tears, is an ex- 
ample of Miggs' s methods. She said " She 
knowed that master hated her. That it was a dread- 
ful thing to live in families that have dislikes and 
not give satisfactions. That to make divisions was 
a thing she could not abear to think of, neither 
could her feelings let her do it. That if it was 
master's wishes she and him should part, it was 
best they should part, and she hoped he might be 
the happier for it, and always wishes him well. 



DICKENS AND THE HISTORICAL NOVEL. l6r 

and that he might find somebody as would meet 
his dispositions. It would be a hard trial to part 
from such a missis, but she could meet any suffer- 
ing when her conscience told her she was in the 
rights, and therefore she was willing even to go 
that lengths. She did not think, she added, that 
she could survive the separations, but as she was 
hated and looked upon unpleasant, perhaps her 
dying as soon as possible would be the best endings 
for all parties. With this affecting conclusion, 
Miss Miggs shed more tears, and sobbed abun- 
dantly." 

Later, when the locksmith's house was besieged 
by the rioters, Miss Miggs it was who, from an 
upper window, called out in terror, imploring them 
" to have pity on her sex's weaknesses." 

Dickens was much interested in the illustrations 
of Master Humphrey's Clocks which covered 
the two stories — " The Old Curiosity Shop " and 
" Barnaby Rudge " — the work of which was done 
by George Cattermole and Hablot K. Browne. 
Mr. Cattermole married a distant cousin of Dickens, 
and consequently the letters exchanged between 
them are somewhat intimate in tone. 

" I want to know," Dickens writes, " if you feel 
ravens in general and would fancy Barnaby's raven 
in particular. Barnaby being an idiot, my notion 
is to have him always in company with a pet raven 
who is immeasurably more knowing than himself. 
To this end I have been studying my bird, and 



l62 CHARLES DICKENS. 

think I could make a very queer character of him. 
Should you like the subject when this raven makes 
his first appearance ? '^ 

" My dear George : " he writes again. 

" Here is a subject for the next number ; the 
next to that I hope to send you the MS. of, very 
early in the week, as the best opportunities for 
illustration are all coming off now and we are in 
the thick of the story." 

Here he gives an account of the rioters burn- 
ing and plundering in the countryside around May- 
pole Inn, and the destruction of the Warren, the 
home of the Haredales, which was to be illustrated, 
and for which he gave many valuable suggestions, 
for he was one writer who understood the real 
need of pictures in literature, something that ap- 
pealed to the eye as well as to the " mind's eye." 
And the artists who worked so zealously had no 
easy time of it, because they had to be mechanics 
as well, and be able to transfer their drawings 
onto blocks of wood prepared for the purpose ; this 
was in itself an art called wood-cutting, and very 
rough and crude work it looks compared with the 
wonderful illustrations of to-day. There were cer- 
tain rules about light and shade which were very 
hard to follow in wood-cutting, hence most of the 
pictures in Dickens's time, looked staringly black 
and white, because the various " washes " and 
" tones " which we have to-day to soften things 
were not heard of then. 



DICKENS AND THE HISTORICAL NOVEL. 163 

Here is another suggestion: 
" My dear George : 

"When Hugh and a small body of the rioters, 
cut off from the Warren, beckoned to their pals, 
they forced into a very remarkable postchaise 
Dolly Varden and Emma Haredale, and bore them 
away with all possible rapidity; one of their com- 
pany driving, the rest running beside the chaise, 
climbing up behind, sitting on the top, lighting 
the way with their torches, &c, &c. If you can 
express the women inside without showing, as by 
a fluttering veil, a delicate arm, or so forth ap- 
pearing at the half-closed window — so much the 
better." 

Again he writes: 

"Firstly. Will you design upon a block of 
wood Lord George Gordon alone and very solitary 
in his prison in the Tower? The chamber as an- 
cient as you please and after your own fancy; the 
time, evening; the season, summer. 

" Secondly. Will you ditto upon ditto, a sword 
duel between Mr. Haredale and Mr. Chester, in a 
grove of trees?" (Then follows a graphic de- 
scription of the duel.) 

" Thirdly. Will you conceive and execute, after 
your own fashion, a frontispiece for * Barnaby ' ? 

" Fourthly. Will you also devise a subject 
representing 'Master Humphrey's Clock' as 
stopped; his chair by the fireside, empty; his crutch 
against the wall; his slippers on the cold hearth; 



I64 CHARLES DICKENS. 

his hat upon the chair back; the MSS. of ' Barnaby ' 
and ' The Curiosity Shop ' heaped upon the table ; 
and the flowers you introduced in the first subject 
of all, withered and dead? Master Humphrey be- 
ing supposed to be no more." 

So we see, by these fragments from the letters, 
of what help he was to the men who worked for 
him and how his imagination colored theirs. 

Concerning the other historical novel, " A Tale 
of Two Cities," written, as we know, nearly 
twenty years after " Barnaby," there seems to be 
one general opinion — that it is Dickens's master- 
piece. Dickens, the man, had lived through much 
in the interim ; his children — nine living ones — 
had sprung up about him; he was a man of 
consequence and of established fame; the great 
acknowledged his greatness; the small looked up 
to him. He had only to place about the guillotine 
and the Terror and the Revolutionary mob his 
own dramatic version, to make this masterpiece, 
and who was better fitted to do this thing than 
he! 

No title more appropriate could have been chosen 
for a story — " A Tale of Two Cities " — Paris and 
London — always London in every tale he wrote 
— never Paris before. He read Carlyle's French 
Revolution, he saw Carlyle's Paris, and he wrote 
about it in Dickens's style, with the result that to 
the girls of the present day Carlyle's French Revo- 
lution is comparatively unknown, while Dickens's 



DICKENS AND THE HISTORICAL NOVEL. 165 

".Tale of Two Cities" still holds and enthralls 
them. 

Girls turn naturally to heroism; so Sydney Car- 
ton — sinner though he is — appeals to them in 
the grand climax of the story. To be willing to 
die as he did — to be able to rise to such a height, 
seems to them the highest goal of greatness. Jus- 
tice or injustice dealt death in " Barnaby Rudge," 
but it was ignominious death — the death of the 
rabble for a lost cause — while gentlemen died in 
Paris for no cause at all. 

There was only one girl in the whole story, 
Lucie Manette, a strangely white, pure figure flit- 
ting through the horror of the times, very young 
and very lovely. She was only seventeen when 
the story opens, and Mr. Jarvis Lorry met her in 
Dover. When he saw her first she was standing 
" in a riding cloak and still holding her straw travel- 
ling hat by its ribbon in her hand. As his eyes 
rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity 
of golden hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own 
with an inquiring look, and a forehead with a 
singular capacity (remembering how young and 
smooth it was) of lifting and knitting itself into 
an expression that was not quite one of perplexity, 
or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright fixed 
attention, though it included all the four expres- 
sions — as his eyes rested on these things, a sud- 
den vivid likeness passed before him, of a child 

whom he had held in his arms on the passage across 
12 



l66 CHARLES DICKENS. 

that very channel one cold time, when the hail 
drifted heavily, and the sea ran high." 

Such was Lucie Manette, and all through her 
many trials we meet the bright presence. Like all 
of Dickens's choice young heroines, she was small, 
and even twenty years or more had not the power 
to make the author forget that Mary Hogarth died 
at the age of seventeen. 

It is beautiful to see how, through all his triumph, 
Dickens honored the memory of this dead girl. 
There is scarcely one among the many girls whom 
he has made his heroines who does not in some way 
bear resemblance to this ideal of his. 

Lucie's companion — the background against 
which her fair young figure stood out in bright 
relief — was a tall, spare woman by the name of 
Miss Pross. " A wild-looking woman, whom even 
in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to be all of 
a red color, and to have red hair, and to be dressed 
in some extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to 
have on her head a most wonderful bonnet like a 
Grenadier wooden measure, and a good measure, 
too, or a great Stilton Cheese, came running into 
the room in advance of the inn servants [Mr. 
Lorry had called for help, for Lucie was in a 
faint], and soon settled the question of his detach- 
ment from the poor young lady by laying a brawny 
hand upon his chest, and sending him flying back 
against the nearest wall. 

*' * I really think this must be a man ! ' was Mr. 



DICKENS AND THE HISTORICAL NOVEL. 167 

Lorry's breathless reflection, simultaneously with 
his coming against the wall." 

Miss Pross was not a man, but a gentle, tender 
woman when the time came for gentleness and 
tenderness — a man only when it came to saving 
her young mistress from the clutches of the guil- 
lotine; none but Dickens could have drawn such 
a character, such a mixture of fun and pathos, of 
sentiment and common-sense! In truth, Miss 
Pross will live with many another spinster of his 
drawing, only this one had a heart of gold. 

But we are looking twenty years ahead at this 
"Tale of Two Cities." After the writing of 
" Barnaby Rudge," the author's restless mind was 
filled with quite another vision. Murmurs had 
reached him from America — invitations had 
poured in upon him. His natural vanity had been 
touched only recently by a triumphal visit to Scot- 
land, with his wife. We must remember that he 
had the soul of the people, he had done good work, 
but he loved above all things — praise and acclama- 
tion. The Americans were calling him and so — 
he went to America. 



PART III. 
THE BOOKS THAT MADE THE MAN. 




CHAPTER IX. 

DICKENS AND AMERICA. 

N December i6, 1841, Dickens wrote the 
following letter from Devonshire Terrace 
to little Mary Talfourd, a daughter of 
one of his most intimate friends: 



" My dear Mary : 

" I should be delighted to come and dine with 
you on your birthday and be as merry as I wish you 
to be always ; but as I am going within a few days 
afterward, a very long distance from home, and 
shall not see any of my children [he had four 
then — two girls and two boys] for six long 
months, I have made up my mind to pass all that 
week at home for their sakes; just as you would 
like your papa and mamma to spend all the time 
they could possibly spare with you, if they were 
about to make a dreary voyage to America; which 
is what I am going to do myself. 

" But, though I cannot come to see you on that 
day, you may be sure I shall not forget that it is 
your birthday, and that I shall drink your health 
and many happy returns in a glass of wine, filled 

171 



172 CHARLES DICKENS. 

as full as it will hold. And I shall dine at half- 
past five myself, so that we may both be drinking 
our wine at the same time; and I shall tell my 
Mary (for I have got a daughter of the same name, 
but she is a very small one as yet) to drink your 
health, too, and we shall try and make believe that 
you are here, or that we are in Russell Square, 
which is the best thing we can do, I think, under 
the circumstances. 

" You are growing up so fast that by the time I 
come home again, I expect you will be almost a 
woman; and in a very few years we shall be say- 
ing to each other, * Don't you remember what the 
birthdays used to be in Russell Square? ' and * How 
strange it seems ! ' and * How quickly time passes ! ' 
and all that sort of thing, you know. But I shall 
always be very glad to be asked on your birthday, 
and to come if you will let me, and to send my love 
to you, and to wish that you may live to be very 
old and very happy, which I do now with all my 
heart. 

" Believe me always, 
" My dear Mary, 
" Yours affectionately, 
" Charles Dickens.'' 

Truly a charming letter from a busy man to a 
little girl of whom he must have been very fond, 
and she must have been quite accustomed to his 



DICKENS AND AMERICA. 173 

signature, for it was very queer and not at all 
readable, with a great big flourish beneath it. 

His four children, Charles, Mary, Kate, and 
Walter Landor, a baby boy not more than a year 
old, were left in the care of Mr. and Mrs. Mac- 
ready (the famous actor and his wife), and Mr. 
and Mrs. Dickens and their maid, Anne, sailed 
from Liverpool on January 4, 1842, on the steam- 
ship Britannia, followed by the good wishes and 
hearty farewells of many friends. Thomas Hood, 
the poet and humorist, composed a couple of clever 
verses to express his sentiments: 

Pshaw ! away with leaf and berry, 

And the sober-sided cup ! 
Bring a Goblet, and bright Sherry ! 

And a bumper fill me up. 
Tho' I had a pledge to shiver, 

And the largest ever was, 
Ere his vessel leaves our river, 

I will drink a health to Boz ! 

Here's success to all his antics. 

Since it pleases him to roam. 
And to paddle o'er Atlantics, 

After such a sale at home ! 
May he shun all rocks whatever, 

And the shallow sand that lurks, 
And the Passage be as clever 

As the best among his works ! 

We must not forget that a voyage across the 
Atlantic seventy years ago was not only fraught 



174 CHARLES DICKENS. 

with considerable danger in the winter time, but 
usually took about three weeks to accomplish. 
The Britannia, being an excellent ship, sighted land 
on the eighteenth day out from Liverpool, after an 
exceptionally stormy voyage. 

The Britannia was a Cunard liner carrying only 
about seventy passengers, which was considered 
quite a wonderful number; but, when we compare 
those early ships with the ocean palaces now afloat, 
we wonder at the ideas of comfort in those days. 
Dickens wrote to his friend, Mr. Thomas Mitton, 
just before sailing from Liverpool : 

" My dear Mitton : 

" This is a short note, but I will fulfil the adage 
and make it a merry one. 

" We came down in great comfort. Our lug- 
gage is now aboard. Anything so utterly and 
monstrously absurd as the size of our cabin, ' no 
gentleman of England who lives at home at ease ' 
can for a moment imagine. Neither of the 
portmanteaus would go into it. There! These 
Cunard packets are not very big you know actually, 
but the quantity of sleeping-berths makes them 
much smaller, so that the saloon is not nearly so 
large as in one of the Ramsgate boats. The ladies' 
cabin is so close to ours that I could knock the door 
without getting of¥ something they call my bed, but 
which I believe to be a muffin beaten fiat. This is 
a great comfort, for it is an excellent room (the 



DICKENS AND AMERICA. 175 

only good one in the ship) ; and if there be only one 
other lady besides Kate, as the stewardess thinks, 
I hope I shall be able to sit there very often. 

" They talk of seventy passengers, but I can't 
think there will be so many ; they talk besides (which 
is even more to the purpose) of a very fine passage, 
having had a noble one this time last year. God 
send it so! We are in the best spirits and full of 
hope. I was dashed for a moment when I saw our 
* cabin,' but I got over that directly and laughed 
so much at its ludicrous proportions that you might 
have heard me all over the ship." 

" That this state-room," Dickens tells us in his 
" American Notes," " had been especially engaged 
for ' Charles Dickens Esquire, and Lady ' was ren- 
dered sufficiently clear, even to my seared intellect, 
by a very small manuscript announcing the fact, 
which was pinned on a very flat quilt, covering a 
very thin mattress, spread like a surgical plaster 
on a most inaccessible shelf." 

These innocent, comfortable English folk, fond 
of lounging and taking their ease when it was time 
to rest, had built a regular castle-in-the-air concern- 
ing the possibilities of a steamer " cabin " — but this 
little hole in the ship was rather overwhelming; 
yet it was the very best cabin in the very fastest 
steamer that plied the ocean. 

The voyage across was rough, and there were 
many times when the vessel and the passengers 



176 CHARLES DICKENS. 

were in grave danger ; the sea was high, and every- 
thing was pitching and tumbHng before they had 
been out a day. "Two passengers' wives (one of 
them my own) lay already in silent agonies on the 
sofa; and one lady's maid {my lady's) was a mere 
bundle on the floor — execrating her destiny and 
pounding her curl-papers among the stray boxes. 
Everything sloped the wrong way. ... I had 
left the door open in the bosom of a gentle declivity, 
and when I turned to shut it, it was on the summit 
of a lofty eminence.'* 

Indeed, the ship rocked so that Dickens was 
forced to take refuge in his bed, occasionally stag- 
gering upon deck to get a breath of air — never 
sick, but always on the verge. He says of sea- 
sickness : " My own opinion is that whether one is 
discreet or indiscreet (in eating) ... on the 
eve of a sea voyage, is a matter of little consequence, 
and that to use a common phrase — ' it comes to 
very much the same thing in the end.' " 

On the third morning out at sea, they shipped 
volumes of water in their cabin, and had the pleas- 
ure of seeing everything turned upside-down. He 
writes : 

" I am awakened out of my sleep by a dismal 
shriek from my wife, who demands to know whether 
there's any danger. I rouse myself and look out 
of bed. The water jug is plunging and leaping 
like a lively dolphin; all the smaller articles are 
afloat except my shoes, which are stranded on a 



DICKENS AND AMERICA. 177 

carpet-bag, high and dry like a couple of coal- 
barges. Suddenly I see them spring into the air, 
and behold the looking-glass, which is nailed to the 
wall, sticking fast upon the ceiling. At the same 
time the door entirely disappears and a new one 
is opened in the floor. Then I begin to compre- 
hend that the state-room is standing on its head." 

Such pitching could not occur in these days. The 
vessels are planned more with an eye to personal 
comfort. There are no water-jugs to play queer 
pranks, and the steamship of to-day may well be 
named the ocean greyhound, so rapidly and with 
such little motion does she travel. 

But the mere discomforts of a rolling ship were 
as nothing compared with the heavy winds and 
gales which at times threatened destruction. So 
terrified and unnerved were some of the passengers 
that even when land was sighted they refused to 
believe it — thinking that they were shipwrecked 
and the officers were afraid to tell them; it was 
only when one of the boats brought back a tall 
young tree, plucked up by the roots, that they 
calmed down and seemed satisfied. 

They stopped at Halifax first to deliver the mail, 
and then they pushed on for Boston harbor, which 
they entered on January 22, thanks to the gallant 
handling of the ship by Captain Hewett. On the 
day before landing, the passengers — headed by 
the Earl of Mulgrave and Charles Dickens — ten- 
dered him a public testimonial, and a subscription 



178 CHARLES DICKENS. 

was raised for a piece of plate, to be inscribed with 
the lasting gratitude of the passengers, and as a 
tribute to his nautical skill. 

From the moment he set foot in America, Dick- 
ens was the center of the most overwhelming 
enthusiasm and hospitality. From city to city his 
was a progress of triumph. Even sovereigns could 
not have commanded greater public notice. Crowds 
followed his carriage, crowds cheered him in the 
theaters. They gave him public dinners and balls, 
they entertained him privately, he had the freedom 
of the towns. In short, we Americans, always 
prone to overdo things, would have spoiled the 
best in Dickens, had he been just an ordinary man ; 
but fortunately his stay in Boston brought him in 
contact with some of the best minds in the coun- 
try, and his own mind — always on the alert for 
information — sought out those things in the big 
city which best ministered to the wants of the 
people. 

First among the places he visited was the Massa- 
chusetts Asylum for the Blind, in which he took a 
keen interest. Laura Bridgman — the famous 
blind girl who was also deprived of hearing, taste, 
and smell — was in the institution at the time, her 
wonderful mind expanding under Dr. Howe's care- 
ful treatment. 

Dickens was much interested in this girl, and also 
in a boy affected in the same way, and whom good 
Dr. Howe, with Laura Bridgman's assistance, was 



DICKENS AND AMERICA. 179 

leading along the same path. This sort of thing 
impressed a mind like Dickens's — always sensitive 
to every human need and affliction. What would 
he have said had he been here to-day to see Helen 
Keller and hear of the magic accomplished in her 
case, and to know the lovely spirit of the girl, and 
to read her wonderful book! 

Dickens was only seeing America in its child- 
hood, it had enjoyed but a little over half a century 
of independence. Many of its people had been 
pioneers in virgin countries, and many little rough- 
nesses of pioneer life still clung to them. He for- 
got this in writing his " American Notes," and his 
pointed allusions to the "typical American'' gave 
serious offense. He seemed to forget, too, that 
he had been the honored guest of these people, and 
would have been horrified had anyone suggested 
that he had abused their hospitality. But such was 
the case ; he criticized them at every point — from 
the way they chewed tobacco to the way they treated 
their slaves. The question of slavery was begin- 
ning to burn fiercely between the North and the 
South ; but Dickens, as an outsider and an English- 
man to boot, unwisely "put his finger in the pie." 
So it was natural that both sides resented his inter- 
ference in the quarrel. There were besides unflat- 
tering criticisms on many other subjects which 
might have been left unsaid. He himself says in 
closing the book : 

"I have little reason to believe, from certain 



l8o CHARLES DICKENS. 

warnings I have had since I returned to England, 
that it (the book) will be tenderly or favorably 
received by the American people; and as I have 
written the Truth in relation to the mass of those 
who form their judgments and express their opin- 
ions, it will be seen that I have no desire to court 
. . . the popular applause." 

There was much praise given in his book to our 
public institutions, and our best and brightest public 
men clustered around him. But for years Amer- 
ican people resented his coming among them as he 
did, and taking back with him some very warped 
ideas, which he published as typical facts. 

Niagara impressed him more than anything he 
saw. He paints the greatness and the splendor of 
it as only his pen can paint. His eyes saw every- 
thing, but he tells us humorously that Anne, their 
stolid maid, he verily believed, never even saw an 
American tree. " She never looks at a prospect 
by any chance, or displays the smallest emotion at 
any sight whatever. She objects to Niagara that 
* it's nothing but water,' and considers that * there 
is too much of that.' " 

At Montreal he had a queer experience; in a 
letter to his brother-in-law, Henry Austin, he says : 

" I suppose you have heard that I am going to 
act at the Montreal theater with the officers? 
Farce-books being scarce, I have selected Keeley's 
part in * Two O'clock in the Morning.' I wrote 
yesterday to Mitchell, the actor and manager at 



DICKENS AND AMERICA. i8l 

New York, to get and send me a comic wig, light 
flaxen, with a small whisker half-way down the 
cheek; over this I mean to wear two night-caps, 
one with a tassel and one of flannel; a flannel 
wrapper, drab tights and slippers will complete the 
costume." 

There were two other farces the same night, '' A 
Roland for an Oliver " and " Deaf as a Post " — 
in each of which Dickens took a prominent part. 

He was boyishly proud of himself over this ex- 
ploit, assuming, besides, the stage management of 
the entire entertainment, and acting so well in the 
comedy roles assigned to him that the packed the- 
ater was in a roar from beginning to end. Even 
Mrs. Dickens was induced to take part in the per- 
formance, and Dickens admitted that she played 
remarkably well. 

There was one serious object which Dickens had 
in view from the time he first considered the pos- 
sibility of a visit to America. He wished to strike 
a blow for a copyright law which would protect 
writers on both sides of the ocean. In a famous 
speech delivered in New York, he expressed himself 
very plainly, and created much excitement. For, 
having suffered from the pirates at home, he came 
down upon all such offenders with needless severity, 
though many of his views were upheld by the best 
Americans in the country, and by the most notable 
men in England. 

In those six months of travel, there was no phase 
13 



l82 CHARLES DICKENS. 

of American life, North, East, South or West, 
which escaped this traveler's notice. So much was 
crowded into the busy days and still busier nights 
that when the prospect of home and children began 
to loom in sight, the hungry father and mother 
could hardly wait for the happy day of sailing. 

They took passage for England in the George 
Washington, sailing from New York on June 7, 
and three tired, happy people were on deck as she 
swung out of the harbor, the young novelist and 
his wife, and the stolid, imperturbable Anne, who 
had gone through the trial without the crack of an 
accidental smile. 

There was an addition to the party in the shape 
of a small dog, which his friend Mitchell had been 
rearing for him, having christened him " Boz." 
He was a white Havana spaniel, and, from the time 
of his first voyage, always accompanied the family 
on their many jaunts. He died at last of extreme 
old age. When safe in England, Dickens rechris- 
tened him "Mr. Snittle Timbery " — and he was 
thereafter known by the abbreviated name of 
" Timber." Dickens, whose fondness for dogs 
was celebrated, soon had him in training, and he 
was at an early age taught to jump over a stick at 
word of command, besides performing other and 
more wonderful feats. 

There was great rejoicing over the return of the 
wanderers. No one knew the exact date of their 
expected coming, so, when the party walked in 



DICKENS AND AMERICA. 183 

Upon their family, one of the boys was so shocked 
with the surprise and joy of meeting that he fell 
into the most alarming convulsions, though up to 
that time he had been in perfect health. He soon 
recovered, however, as Dickens writes in a letter 
to a friend. How he enjoyed those days of re- 
union with his children ! He was a perfect boy 
among them, and immediately proceeded to invent 
new nicknames for each one. 

In a postscript of a letter to his brother-in-law, 
Henry Austin, he writes: 

" The children's present names are as follows : 

" Katey ( from a lurking propensity to fieryness ) 
Lucifer Box. 

" Mamey (as generally descriptive of her bear- 
ing) Mild Glo'ster. 

"Charley (as a corruption of Master Toby) 
Flaster Floby. 

"Walter (suggested by his high cheek-bones) 
Young Skull. Each is pronounced with a peculiar 
howl which I shall have great pleasure in illus- 
trating." 

Dickens brought back from the new world many 
pleasant memories and warm friendships. Fore- 
most among his friends were Washington Irving 
and Professor Felton, Bryant, Halleck, Dana, also 
a host of others in every walk of life, for Dickens 
from early boyhood was a cordial, genial soul and 
of a cheerful temper that made friends at every 
turn. 



l84 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Now that he was safe at home, his mind once 
more became absorbed in his writing. " American 
Notes " were published in 1842. He was then 
ready for a larger task, and " Martin Chuzzlewit " 
began to take shape. It took a long time to grow, 
the title being the hardest thing to decide. He 
thought of Martin instantly but hesitated over half 
a dozen surnames, selecting Chuzslewit at last. It 
was issued in twenty monthly parts, and on the 
original wrappers this inscription appears : 

" The Life and Adventures of Martin Chuzzle- 
wit, his Relatives, Friends and Enemies, comprising 
all his Wills and his Ways ; with an Historical Rec- 
ord of What he Did, and What he Didn't ; showing, 
moreover. Who inherited the Family Plate, Who 
came in for the Silver Spoons, and Who for the 
Wooden Ladles. The Whole forming a Complete 
Key to the House of Chuzzlewit. Edited by * Boz,' 
With Illustrations by ' Phiz.' " 

The book came out in twenty monthly numbers, 
beginning January, 1843, the final double number 
appearing in July, 1844. The book, besides being 
an interesting story, was chiefly remarkable for the 
creation of Mr. Pecksniff, one of the most delight- 
fully real old hypocrites that the world has ever 
known. It was even hinted that the gentleman 
bore a marked resemblance to Sir Robert Peel, the 
eminent English statesman, though many found a 
distinct likeness to Samuel Carter Hall, editor of 
the Art Journal, who was always pompously appeal- 



DICKENS AND AMERICA. 1 85 

ing to hand, head, and heart, which Punch took up 
in a spirit of fun and paraphrased into ''gloves, 
hat, and waistcoat.'' 

The story is called " Martin Chuzlzewit " because 
Dickens always felt the need of a young hero around 
whom to weave a network of events dipping far 
back into the past. Martin was a young fellow 
with few friends in the world, but circumstances 
and Mr. Pecksniff caught him in their toils and 
made a man of him. The history of the Chuzdewit 
family is far from fair, their record far from clean ; 
yet Martin seems free from all outward taint — * 
unless it were that of selfishness. 

A host of substantial figures pass before us in 
the reading of " Martin Chuzzlewit/' all in a certain 
way suggesting some vice or virtue. 

First, of course, are Mr. Pecksniff and his two 
daughters. Charity and Mercy, named after the 
cardinal virtues, which Mr. Pecksniff was supposed 
to possess — called in playfulness by their parent. 
Cherry and Merry. Miss Cherry interests us not 
at all ; she was a young woman who was born old — 
probably she was in her early twenties when Martin 
was first introduced to the Misses Pecksniff — but 
she was one of those gaunt females of whom Dick- 
ens loved to make caricatures, and at whose age 
one could make no possible guess. 

But not so laughing little Merry, with the clus- 
tering curls. She was the sunshine of the House 
of Pecksniff, which, by the way, was distantly re- 



l86 CHARLES DICKENS. 

lated to the House of Chuzslewit. She had plump 
white shoulders, sparkling eyes, and a vivacious 
manner, that for so young a girl seemed almost 
unnatural. She was probably not more than seven- 
teen, and all her little affectations of manner made 
her seem even younger than she was. 

Cherry was supposed to represent the calmness 
of wisdom in the Pecksniff household; Merry was 
the little bubbling fountain of youth, irrepressible, 
laughing always, whether it was at Martin or Tom 
Pinch or that worst of villains, Jonas Chuzslewit, 
whom fate had set aside for her lord and master — 
poor little Merry! There came a time when she 
did not laugh so much. There is nothing more 
pathetic than the slow crushing of the spirit of a 
young girl. Merry's perpetual laugh was very irri- 
tating when we felt that it was put on for the occa- 
sion, but when she became Mrs. Jonas Chuzzlewit 
we missed the pretty bird-like airs and graces, and 
it was then that we began to love and feel sorry 
for the Merry that had been. 

Dickens is always most particular in describing 
homes, and we can tell at once, from a peep into 
the Pecksniff's establishment, what strained, unnat- 
ural lives these two girls must have led. Their 
mother, poor soul, had gone early to her reward, 
and their father — a canting, drunken old hypo- 
crite — lived by cheating. He cajoled young men 
to come into his home with the laudable purpose 
of studying architecture under his guidance. He 



DICKENS AND AMERICA. 187 

charged them enormously, and if after a certain 
time they did not happen to be smitten by the 
charms of either of his daughters, they were turned 
adrift without ceremony, and certainly without the 
substantial fee which the unsuspecting pupil was 
made to pay in advance. 

In describing Mr. Pecksniff, Dickens tells us: 
" It would be no description of Mr. Pecksniff's 
gentleness of manner to say that he looked at this 
moment as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. 
He rather looked as if any quantity of butter might 
have been made out of him, by churning the milk 
of human kindness, as it spouted upwards from his 
heart." 

How could girls brought up in such an atmos- 
phere be real girls! They were taught early to 
play into their father's hands, and when it was 
Merry and not Cherry, whom the fascinating Jonas 
at last selected as his wife, there was a terrible 
scene between the two loving sisters. The bargain 
was that Mr. Jonas was to bear off Miss Cherry 
as a matrimonial prize, but he liked "the other 
one " best, though she laughed at him and flouted 
him, and tossed her curls coquettishly. 

There was another girl in the book, sweet Ruth 
Pinch, and here we have one of the dearest girls 
in story. She was a very old-fashioned girl — was 
little Ruth Pinch, and proud and happy when fate 
threw her and her dearly-loved Brother Tom 
together in grimy old London. What matter that 



388 CHARLES DICKENS. 

they had both lost their positions; they had each 
other, and youth, and health, and both had perfect 
dispositions with the power to make everyone happy 
with whom they came in contact. 

It was pleasant to see Ruth flying around their 
poor little home, doing a hundred little girlish things 
to make it seem like home, and looking withal so 
distractingly pretty that Tom, unaccustomed to 
anything better than Mr. Pecksniff's daughters, 
followed her about delightedly, and it was the 
simplest thing that big John Westlock should fall 
head over ears in love with her the moment he 
saw her. 

It was a pretty pastoral romance in the heart 
of a busy city, though for a long time it seemed 
uncertain which little Ruth loved best, Brother Tom 
or John Westlock, Every afternoon Ruth was on 
hand to meet her brother and walk with him through 
the Fountain Court, that is, when Tom found a 
position, which he did without delay, but on one 
occasion, " either she was a little too soon, or Tom 
was a little too late — she was so precise in general 
that she timed it to half a minute — but no Tom 
was there. Well! But was anybody else there 
that she blushed so deeply after looking round, and 
tripped off down the steps with such unusual expe- 
dition? 

" Why, the fact is, that Mr. Westlock was pass- 
ing at that moment. The Temple is a public thor- 
oughfare . . . and Mr. Westlock had as good 



DICKENS AND AMERICA. 189 

a right to be there as anybody else. But why did 
she run away then ? Not being ill-dressed, for she 
was much too neat for that, why did she run away ? 
The brown hair that had fallen down beneath her 
bonnet, and had one impertinent imp of a flower 
clinging to it, boastful of its license before all men, 
that could not have been the cause, for it looked 
charming. Oh! foolish, panting, frightened little 
heart, why did she run away! 

"... merrily the tiny fountain played, and 
merrily the dimples sparkled on its sunny face. 
John Westlock hurried after her. Softly the whis- 
pering water broke and fell, and roguishly the dim- 
ples twinkled, as he stole upon her footsteps. 

'' Oh, foolish, panting, timid little heart, why did 
she feign to be unconscious of his coming? Why 
wish herself so far away, yet be so flutter ingly 
happy there ! " 

No prettier love-making has Dickens ever writ- 
ten. The truth was, he himself fell in love with 
every pretty, dainty little girl of his creation. 

The happy love of Ruth and John Westlock, the 
serene, beautiful character of Tom Pinch, the bub- 
bling, cheerful goodness of Mark Tapley, are the 
bright spots in a very dark and somber tale. There 
are certain humorous characters that we can never 
forget. Sairey Gamp, for instance, and Betsey 
Prig, with their fat, bloated faces and red noses 
and ponderous shapes, and the fictitious Mrs. 
Harris — who had no shape at all. There is 



190 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Todgers boarding-house, where the Pecksniffs 
stopped when in London ; there is Bailey, the dirty 
Httle " boots/' and Mr. Mould, the famous under- 
taker. But Dickens, still smarting under American 
displeasure, sent young Martin and Mark Tapley 
to America, to say some more sharp (and alasl 
true) things about that wild, fever-ridden country, 
where the two adventurers found themselves. 
" Martin Chuzzlewit," it is true, proved to be one of 
the author's greatest novels, but we cannot help 
missing a certain sunny mood which crept through 
even the most serious of his writings. 

He was only thirty-two on the completion of the 
story, but already the cares of an increasing family 
were writing their lines upon his handsome face. 
His third son and fifth child, Francis Jeffreys, was 
born in January, 1844; the problem of living, just 
at that time, was a serious one, for money difficul- 
ties were confronting him, and it became necessary 
to take his whole family for a while to the Conti- 
nent, where the cost of living was so much less. 
He said to one of his friends : " I am quite serious 
and sober when I say that I have very grave 
thoughts of keeping my whole menagerie in Italy; 
three years." 

The last number of " Martin Chuzzlewit " was 
finished in June, and in July the novelist and his 
wife, his sister-in-law, and all the children, like 
little steps — from sturdy Charles to Baby Francis 
— set out for sunny Italy, where, from a land of 



DICKENS AND AMERICA. 191 

perpetual summer and bright skies, went forth a 
tale of Christmas — in dingy London, amid wind 
and fog and hail and snow — a tale which made the 
world wonder, for the hundredth time, at the magic 
of his art. 



CHAPTER X. 

THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 




UITE a fat little book might be made 
of all that Dickens has to say about 
Christmas. The season meant so much 
to him — his own nature was so gener- 
ous in giving out its light and warmth to those who 
lacked these things that his mighty pen has written 
of Christmas in a way to be remembered through 
all time. 

'* There are people," he writes, " who will tell 
you that Christmas is not to them what it used 
to be; that each succeeding Christmas has found 
some cherished hope, or happy prospect of the year 
before, dimmed or passed away. That the present 
only serves to remind them ... of the feasts 
they once bestowed on hollow friends, and of the 
cold looks that meet them now in adversity or mis- 
fortune. Never heed such dismal reminiscences. 
. . . Do not select the merriest day of the three 
hundred and sixty-five for your doleful recollec- 
tions, but draw your chair nearer the blazing fire, 
fill the glass, and send round the song." 

This is what Dickens always did when he was 
one of the original " Little Dickenses," when he was 

192 



THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 193 

a Struggling young fellow with no hope beyond the 
work nearest at hand, and now, when he was the 
famous father of other "Little Dickenses," this 
same Christmas spirit was always with him in its 
proper season. 

" A Christmas family party ! " he writes. " We 
know nothing in nature more delightful. There 
seems a magic in the very name of Christmas. 
Petty jealousies and discords are forgotten; social 
feelings are awakened in bosoms to which they have 
long been strangers. . . . Would that Christ- 
mas lasted the whole year through (as it ought)." 

Now, of course, our good friend Charles Dickens 
was only speaking of the spirit of Christmas. To 
be obliged to celebrate it every day, with turkey, 
plum-pudding, and sweets, would not only spoil 
one's digestion but would grow very tiresome into 
the bargain. No girl, nor boy, either, for that 
matter, though his appetite may be unfailing, could 
live up to the standard of Christmas every day. 
What Dickens really meant was what he said in 
that wonderful allegory called "A Christmas 
Carol " : 

" I will honor Christmas in my heart. I will 
live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The 
Spirits of all Three shall strive within me, I will 
not shut out the lessons that they teach." 

This is the final statement of the subdued and 
chastened Ehenezer Scrooge, who, before he saw 
the Ghosts of Christmas, was heard to exclaim, "If 



194 CHARLES DICKENS. 

I could work my will, every idiot who goes about 
with ' Merry Christmas ' on his lips should be boiled 
with his own pudding and buried with a stake of 
holly run through his heart. He should ! " 

The " Christmas Carol " was a story that just 
*' happened." Dickens was deep in " Martin Chuz- 
zlewit " at the time it popped into his head, and it 
stayed there so persistently that he could not drive 
it out. Many a night he walked the streets of Lon- 
don, traversing miles in a state of restless excite- 
ment, as the beautiful scheme of the story unfolded 
itself, like the petals of some perfect flower. It 
was written in snatches between two parts of '' Mar- 
tin Chuzzlewit," begun in October and finished by 
the end of November, 1843, quite in time to be 
issued for the Christmas holidays. Through " A 
Christmas Carol " Dickens became the pioneer of 
the Christmas stories. From that time, fiction 
writers all over the world have taken the theme and 
woven countless tales around it; and every year 
there is a great demand for such work — such de- 
mand, indeed, that a Christmas story must be com- 
pleted many months — even a year or more — 
before publication. In Dickens's case, however, it 
was the first, and his publishers, dazzled by such 
a brilliant experiment, fairly rushed it into print. 
Yet, after all, what is there in the story save a 
man's battle with his better self! But it moved the 
world ; men and women — girls and boys — have 
read and taken the lesson to heart. The story of a 



THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 195 

selfish man to whom Christmas was " Humbug/' 
and all kindly joys and emotions were strangers, 
grew in interest as the shadow of his dead partner 
rose before him. 

Marley's Ghost was a very sensible ghost and 
told Scrooge some wholesome truths as he sat there 
on the other side of the fireplace, clanking his chains 
— truths which are known to us all, when we have 
time to pause and think. 

Then the Spirit of the Past came, and showed 
him a picture of the boy he once was. 

"... they passed through the wall and 
stood by an open country road with fields on either 
hand. The city had entirely vanished, not a vestige 
of it was to be seen. The darkness and the mist 
had vanished with it, for it was a clear, cold winter 
day, with snow upon the ground. 

" ' Good Heavens ! ' said Scrooge, clasping his 
hands together, as he looked about him, * I was bred 
in this place — I was a boy here ! ' 

"... He was conscious of a thousand 
odors floating in the air, each one connected with 
a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and 
cares long, long forgotten. . . . 

" They walked along the road ; Scrooge recog- 
nized every gate, and post, and tree; until a little 
market-town appeared in the distance, with its 
bridge, its church, and winding river. Some shaggy 
ponies were now seen trotting towards them, with 
boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in 



196 CHARLES DICKENS. 

country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All 
these boys were in great spirits and shouted to each 
other, until the broad fields were so full of merry 
music, that the crisp air laughed to hear it. 

** * Those are but shadows of the things that have 
been,' said the Ghost.'* 

Then the Ghost showed Scrooge a picture of a 
deserted schoolhouse, where a solitary child, neg- 
lected by his friends, was left there at Christmas 
time. " They went across the hall to a door at the 
back of the house. It opened before them and dis- 
closed a long, bare, melancholy room, made barer 
still by lines of plain deal forms and desks." 
Scrooge saw here the little dream-boy of Long Ago, 
reading " The Arabian Nights " by the light of a 
feeble fire, and sometimes it was Crusoe or Friday, 
or the Parrot. How well Scrooge and Dickens 
remembered that lonely little boy. 

Then came the boy's sister Fan. 

" ' I have come to bring you home, dear brother ! * 
said the child, clapping her tiny hands. * To bring 
you home, home, home ! ' 

" ' Home, little Fan ? ' returned the boy. 

" ' Yes ! ' said the child, brimful of glee. * Home 
for good and all. Home forever and ever. Fa- 
ther is so much kinder than he used to be, home's 
like Heaven! He spoke so gently to me one dear 
night when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid 
to ask him once more if you might come home; and 
he said, Yes, you should, and sent me in a coach to 



THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 197 

bring you. And you're to be a man ! ' said the child, 
opening her eyes, * and are never to come back 
here ; but first we're to be together all the Christmas 
long, and have the merriest time in all the world.' " 

Then Scrooge saw himself as a dashing young 
clerk, to one jolly old Fezziwig, who believed in 
Christmas. 

" * Yo ho, my boys ! ' said Fezziwig. * No more 
work to-night. Christmas Eve, Dick, Christmas, 
Ebenezer! Let's have the shutters up,' cried old 
Fezziwig, with a sharp clap of his hands, * before 
a man can say Jack Robinson ! ' " 

They were only 'prentice lads, but they scented 
a dance — and how they worked ! 

" Clear away ! There was nothing they wouldn't 
have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, 
with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a 
minute. Every movable was packed off as if it 
were dismissed from public life for evermore; the 
floor was swept and watered, the lamps were 
trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire, and the 
warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and 
bright a ball-room as you would desire to see upon 
a winter's night." 

Only a dance for the merry poor on this Christ- 
mas Eve which the Spirit of the Past was showing 
to Scrooge; but how real it is, and who but Dickens 
could paint such a picture of life and jollity and 
motion. 

*' In came a fiddler with a music-book, and went 
14 



198 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Up to the lofty desk and made an orchestra of it. 
In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast, substan- 
tial smile. In came the three Miss Fezziwigs, 
beaming and lovable. In came the six young fel- 
lows whose hearts they broke. In came the young 
men and women employed in the business. In came 
the housemaid with her cousin, the baker. In came 
the cook with her brother's particular friend, the 
milkman. In came the boy from over the way, 
who was suspected of not having board enough 
from his master, trying to hide himself behind the 
girl from next door but one, who was proved to 
have had her ears pulled by her mistress. In they 
all came, one after another, some slyly, some boldly, 
some gracefully, some awkwardly, some pushing, 
some pulling; in they all came, anyhow and every- 
how." 

Then away they went, in a breathless whirl of 
fun and laughter. Our own feet keep time as we 
read, and we feel the rhythm and swing of this good 
old-fashioned dance. 

Then the lonely old man saw how love had slipped 
through his fingers, and the Spirit showed him a 
picture of the girl he might have married, the wife 
of another, a comely matron, with a daughter like 
herself years ago. Here, too, it was Christmas 
Eve, in a bright room with its cheerful winter fire. 
" The noise in this room was perfectly tumultuous, 
for there were more children there than Scrooge 
in his agitated state of mind could count; and, un- 



THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 199 

like the celebrated herd in the poem, they were not 
forty children conducting themselves like one, but 
every child conducting itself like forty." 

How Dickens loved this noisy, rollicking fun of 
Christmas! The coming of the father, laden with 
packages, accompanied by a porter carrying more; 
the shouts of wonder and delight as each package 
is opened — we can almost hear them. 

" The terrible announcement that the baby had 
been taken in the act of putting a doll's frying- 
pan into his mouth, and was more than suspected 
of having swallowed a fictitious turkey, glued on 
a wooden platter! The immense relief of finding 
this a false alarm! The joy and gratitude and 
ecstasy! They are all indescribable, alike. It is 
enough that by degrees the children and their emo- 
tions got out of the parlour, and by one stair at a 
time, up to the top of the house; where they went 
to bed and so subsided." Who but Dickens could 
show us these happy, tired little children toiling up 
the stairs, clasping their toys in their eager arms! 

The Spirit of the Present, who next appeared 
to Scrooge, was a jolly, festive Giant, a Giant who 
held a torch like a Horn of Plenty, and who sat 
upon a couch or sort of throne, made of all the good 
things to eat that one could possibly imagine at 
Christmas time. 

Scrooge went with this Spirit into the home of 
his own poor, underpaid clerk. Boh Cratchit, " and 
on the threshold the Spirit smiled, and stopped to 



20O CHARLES DICKENS. 

bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinklings 
of his torch. Think of that! Bob had but fifteen 
'Bob' a week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays 
but fifteen copies of his Christian name; and yet 
the Ghost of Christmas Present, blessed his four- 
roomed house." Which means, of course, that the 
Cratchits had the real Spirit of Christmas in their 
midst, no matter how poor and pinched they might 
be in the world's goods. 

Whoever reads " A Christmas Carol " and does 
not love the Cratchit family, from Bob himself to 
Tiny Tim, the dear little lame boy, who when Bob 
proposed " A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears, 
God bless us ! " echoed in his weak little voice, 
" God bless us, every one ! " is hard to please. 

There was no lack of children in the Cratchit 
family. Mrs. Cratchit herself looked sweet and 
motherly in her twice-turned gown and new ribbons ; 
then there were Martha Cratchit and Belinda 
Cratchit and two smaller Cratchits and Tiny Tim, 
such a happy family, and how we love to linger 
among them! And oh, the things they had to eat 
— and how Dickens loved to spread a feast for his 
poor people; how they ever escaped illness after 
so many goodies, it is, indeed, hard to tell. He 
loved, too, to take his readers out of the storms 
and howling winds of winter, and set them down 
beside the cheery Christmas fire, and hold a shovel- 
ful of dancing chestnuts over the blaze, and see 
them puff and crack and burst. His little " Carol,'* 



THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 201 

as he called it, made a great stir, though it was 
only a simple, crimson-covered volume, illustrated 
by John Leech, with color etchings and woodcuts. 
Letters came to him from all over the world, for 
the quaint allegory found its way to the very hearts 
and souls of people. 

" A Christmas Carol '' was written after the man- 
ner of the old-fashioned Carol, in Staves instead of 
Chapters. He sent a copy of this newest child of 
his to his friend, Professor Felton, calling it a Short 
Story of Christmas, by Charles Dickens, " Over 
which Christmas Carol Charles Dickens wept, and 
laughed, and wept again, and excited himself in 
the most extraordinary manner in the composi- 
tion. ... Its success is most prodigious, and 
by every post, all manner of strangers write all 
manner of letters to him about their homes and 
hearths, and how this same Carol is read aloud there, 
and kept on a little shelf by itself. Indeed, it is 
the greatest success, as I am told, that this ruffian 
and rascal has ever achieved." 

In truth, a wealth of sentiment has always clung 
around the " Carol." It is said that the novelist's 
son, Mr. Henry Fielding Dickens, reads it aloud to 
his family every Christmas Day, and there is cer- 
tainly no Christmas Sermon ever written that has 
clung so to the very heartstrings of all manner of 
people. 

The special Yule-tide which brought forth the 
'' Carol " was a season of much celebration for 



202 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Dickens and his family, winding up with a birthday 
party of one of Macready's children, where Dickens 
and Forster amused the youngsters with all sorts 
of conjuring tricks, enjoying them no doubt as 
much as the children themselves. 

But all this occurred before Dickens had defi- 
nitely decided to take his family to Italy. Neither 
the " Carol " nor " Martin Chuzzlewit " had added 
what he desired to his income, and a year or more 
of simpler living abroad would be a great pecuniary 
gain. After consultation with friends, he decided 
to settle near Genoa, and their first halt was Albaro, 
a suburb of that city, which they reached in July, 
1844. 

Their house was called Villa di Bagnarello, de- 
scribed by Dickens as a " pink jail." Being brimful 
of associations, he would have preferred Lord 
Byron's old house, but alas! being uninhabitable 
as a home, it had been turned into a wine shop. 
However, they had a splendid view of Genoa and 
the blue waters of the Mediterranean, about which 
he was never tired of writing. But he was rest- 
less, his writing materials had not arrived from 
England, and he was never at home unless sur- 
rounded by certain accustomed objects. Until his 
paper and pens were laid out, his inkstand opened, 
and sundry little figures, which always stood on his 
desk, were arranged in their proper positions, he 
could do nothing. When this was accomplished he 
could settle to serious work. 



THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 203 

He was contemplating a second Christmas book, 
and had the idea of " The Chimes," but the title 
had not yet come to his mind. In fact, just at that 
time he was in too restless a mood to write at all, 
but wandered about the streets of Genoa, studying 
the people and the strange customs. Here they 
stayed until the end of September, but some im- 
portant events were crowded into those two months. 

First of all, he went head foremost over a pole 
which had been stretched across one of the dark 
Genoese streets, and which he did not see, while 
endeavoring to escape from a very stupid party, 
and the result was a sharp though short attack of 
illness commencing with the same agonizing pain 
in the side from which he suffered so often as a 
boy. Soon after his recovery he went to Mar- 
seilles to meet his brother Frederick, and they came 
down together to Albaro. On the morning after 
their arrival, the two young men went swimming 
in the bay, and Frederick was nearly drowned be- 
fore his brother's eyes. A fishing boat, arriving 
in the nick of time, just saved his life, but, as Dick- 
ens himself said: "It was a world of horror and 
anguish to me, crowded into four or five minutes 
of dreadful agitation." 

And last, but not least, came a decided alteration 
in the young author's appearance. Hitherto his 
handsome, almost boyish face had been beardless, 
and his well-cut chin and mouth added much to his 
general expression, but, aping the fashion of the 



204 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Italians, he now adorned his upper Hp with a mus- 
tache, or mustaches as they were called, and Dickens 
writes of them: 

" They are charming, charming. Without them 
life would be a blank." 

Towards the end of September he moved into a 
suite of rooms in the Palazzo Pechiere for the win- 
ter, just overlooking the outskirts of the city — a 
stately, wonderful place, with its sculptures and 
stone balconies and fountains, its groves of camelias 
and orange trees, while inside, the frescoes, many 
of them done by Michael Angelo, were beautiful 
enough to delight the eye of any artist. 

But, though we might scarcely believe it, this 
exceedingly queer young man, with a new Christ- 
mas story seething in his mind, was longing in- 
tensely for his dear, dark London streets, where 
he might tramp and tramp all the night through, 
if so he wished — and think and think. He missed 
his friends, too, especially Forster, to whom he 
usually outlined his ideas before even setting them 
down on paper. 

He wished to make this coming story an appeal 
in behalf of the poor of London, and he had a 
certain peculiarity in not being able to write a 
single line of any story until a way was cleared for 
the title, but it eluded him for a long time, until 
one morning a maddening clash of bells rose from 
the city of Genoa, jangling with every sort of dis- 
cord to set one's teeth on edge. Instantly the title 



THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 205 

for his book suggested itself. It was to be called 
" The Chimes," and should resound over England — 
not Genoa. Little he cared for the Genoese 
churches and convents where those bells hung; his 
bells should be in an old London belfry, and they 
should ring in a New Year for the London people 
— the poor people who found it hard to get work — 
and were constantly being " put down " by the 
Aldermen and the City heads. 

Once armed with his title, Dickens plunged into 
the very heart of his story; he wrote it in a state 
of great mental excitement, for through its means 
he wished to expose a certain body of pompous 
men who talked a great deal about what was good 
for the poor, what should be done for the poor, 
and how the poor should be " put down," and 
whose useless chatter succeeded generally in driving 
the poor to desperation. 

He divided " The Chimes " into " Quarters," as 
he divided the " Carol " into " Staves," and into 
these " Quarters " he put his whole heart and soul. 
When he came to the third part he felt as if he had 
been ill, so untiringly had he worked, and in very 
truth his cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken, and 
his head was hot to almost fever heat, with the 
mental effort this writing cost him. 

We all know and love the story of Toby Veck, 
the poor little shivering, ill-clad porter who held a 
sort of permanent stand in the very shadow of the 
old belfry where hung the chimes; who dared to 



206 CHARLES DICKENS. 

eat his dinner of stewed tripe on the steps of the 
rich Alderman Cute, and who was ordered away 
before he had half finished his meal. We love little 
old Tohy from the beginning, and are sorry to see 
that on this New Year's Eve he has been foolish 
enough to believe what Sir Joseph Bowley and 
Alderman Cute say of poor people — that they are 
bad and that they all must be " put down." 

Toby was often called Trotty Veck, because, 
having no overcoat, he often trotted out of his 
nook by the belfry and down the street to warm 
his thin old blood — when the day was bitterly 
cold or the penetrating dampness got into his old 
bones. 

Year after year he had stood waiting for what 
chance work might come in his way just in the 
shadow of the chimes. He had grown to love the 
bells, to watch for their ringing, " and he very 
often got such a crick in his neck from staring — 
with his mouth wide open — at the steeple where 
they hung, that he was fain to take an extra trot 
or two, afterwards, to cure it." 

Tohy read a week-old daily paper and fell into 
a study: 

" * It frightens me almost,' he said, * I don't know 
what we poor people are coming to. Lord send we 
may be coming to something better in the New 
Year nigh upon us ! ' " 

Tohy was quite impressed with the idea that poor 
people were no good on earth, even though he 



THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 207 

thought better when he looked into the face of his 
blooming daughter Meg and her stalwart lover, 
Richard. 

Such a dear, sweet girl was Meg, with her beau- 
tiful eyes. " Eyes that would bear a world of 
looking in, before their depth was fathomed. Dark 
eyes which reflected back the eyes which searched 
them; not flashingly or at the owner's will, but 
with a clear, calm, honest, patient radiance, claim- 
ing kindred with that light which Heaven called into 
being. Eyes that were beautiful and true, and 
beaming with Hope; with Hope so young and 
fresh ; with Hope so buoyant, vigorous, and bright, 
despite the twenty years of work and poverty on 
which they had looked; that they became a voice 
to Trotty Veck and said : * I think we have some 
business here — a little ! ' " 

Dear wholesome Meg meant just the sunny side 
of poverty, and big strong Richard, the laboring 
class that means to win — youth and health and 
strength to fight the battle. But Tohy needed some- 
thing out of the common to help him back into the 
right way of thinking. 

One step in the right direction was to help some- 
one more unfortunate than himself. So to poor, 
hunted-down Will Fern and his little daughter 
Lilian, the good little Tohy offered the shelter of 
his home. But still he pondered over the words 
of Alderman Cute and Mr. Filer, and Sir Joseph 
Bowley, who would put the poor man down, and 



208 CHARLES DICKENS. 

somehow the clashing chimes seemed to take up 
the refrain — " Put 'em down, Put 'em down ! " 
While the rich people from their lofty height 
preached to the poor, the following sermon : 

Oh, let us love our occupations, 
Bless the squire and his relations, 
Live upon our daily rations, 
And always know our proper stations. 

Too much lonely thinking of this sort began to 
haunt poor Trotty Veck. The Chimes always 
clashed now out of tune, and that night — that very 
New Year's Eve — they called to him: 

" ' Toby Veck, Toby Veck, waiting for you, 
Toby! Toby Veck, Toby Veck, waiting for you, 
Toby! Come and see us, come and see us. Drag 
him to us, drag him to us. Haunt and hunt him, 
haunt and hunt him. Break his slumbers, break his 
slumbers! Toby Veck, Toby Veck, door open 
wide, Toby, Toby Veck, Toby Veck, door open 
wide, Toby — ' " 

The more he listened, the louder and more in- 
sistent came the call of the chimes, and the old 
porter — hatless and coatless — followed their call 
— " Up, up, up " the belfry stairs, " and round and 
round; and up, up, up; higher, higher, higher up! 



" This was the belfry where the ringers came. 
He had caught hold of one of the frayed ropes which 



THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 209 

hung down through apertures in the open roof. At 
first he started, thinking it was hair ; then trembled 
at the very thought of waking the deep Bell. The 
Bells themselves were higher. Higher, Trotty in his 
fascination, or in working out the spell upon him, 
groped his way. By ladder now, and toilsomely, 
for it was steep and not too certain holding for 
the feet.'* 

All this wonderful description and much that 
follows is beautiful rhythmical blank verse. Most 
likely at the first writing, Dickens put it in verse 
form, as he did many passages in " The Old Curi- 
osity Shop," and as he often did in the heat of 
composition, when his thoughts flowed to that 
measure. 

The " Third Quarter " deals with the Bells and 
the Goblins who dwelt beneath them in their 
shadow. And a wonderful " quarter " it is — a bit 
of word painting, quite unusual even for Charles 
Dickens, who did and wrote unusual things. Poor 
little Toby Veck, among the grimness of it all, shud- 
dered as the goblins flitted by him in the darkness. 
Children reading it to-day hold each other's hands 
and draw deep breaths of awe. The Bells com- 
plained that Toby had wronged them by mistaking 
their message, and Toby was now put through his 
trial under their deep-mouthed shadow. 

In short, '' The Chimes " preached a beautiful 
sermon, not only to the world of readers but to the 
writer himself. When he had finished the story, 



210 CHARLES DICKENS. 

he shut himself up and had '' a good cry," and later 
he wrote to Thomas Mitton : 

" I have worn myself to death, in the month I 
have been at work, ... I have not been able to 
divest myself of the story — have suffered very 
much in my sleep in consequence, and am so shaken 
by such work in this trying climate that I am as 
nervous as a man who is dying of drink and as 
haggard as a murderer. I believe I have written 
a tremendous book, and knocked the ' Carol ' out 
of the field." 

He was not altogether right in this assertion. 
He never knocked " The Carol " out of the field — 
not even when he wrote " The Cricket on the 
Hearth," and that's saying a good deal. The 
beauty of *' The Chimes " is for older eyes and 
hearts; girls and boys will laugh and cry over the 
other two long before they even grasp dimly at the 
true meaning of " The Chimes," and even we older 
ones are apt for " Auld lang syne " to read over 
and over what pleased us best in our childhood. 

As for Dickens himself, he was very much elated 
over what he considered a beautiful piece of work, 
and he had a wild, boyish desire to read this mas- 
terpiece to a chosen circle of his friends, wild 
enough, in fact, to carry him to London for that 
express purpose. He wrote to John Forster sug- 
gesting an evening at Lincoln's Inn Fields (Fors- 
ter's residence), and inclosing a list of the chosen 
spirits who he knew would enjoy the reading. 



THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 211 

There were eleven present at this famous meet- 
ing, which Daniel Maclise has immortalized by a 
charming sketch of the lofty room and the distin- 
guished company. 

Dickens, seated at the large table, looked par- 
ticularly young and boyish in the midst of them all. 
On one side of him sat Carlyle, on the other — 
Fox. The rest of the interested circle consisted of 
Forster, Gerrold, Blanchard, Frederick Dickens, 
Maclise, Stanfield, Dyce and Harness, all intimate 
friends. Such a reading as it was! He reached 
England on the 30th of November, and the mem- 
orable reading took place on the 2nd of December. 
Most of the company were in tears, for the Novelist 
had great power as a reader, a power which brought 
him much fame as he grew older. He read " The 
Chimes " twice in London during that brief stay 
of a week, then he vanished like the Spirit of Christ- 
mas to his Italian home, and " The Chimes " rang 
out their message to the world. 

'* The Cricket on the Hearth,'' the third of the 
famous Christmas Series, was not thought of until 
his year's sojourn in Italy had drawn to a close. 
He was very homesick, and was glad to settle down 
in Devonshire Terrace once more. 

When "The Cricket" first took shape in his 
mind, it was in the guise of a periodical. " I would 
call it, sir," he said to his ever faithful friend, John 
Forster, " * The Cricket. A cheerful creature that 
chirrups on the Hearth. Natural History: " 



212 CHARLES DICKENS. 

The scheme was a good one, but the year (1845) 
was one of disaster all over the country, so it was 
wisely abandoned. The story, however, began to 
take shape — a delicate, poetic fancy, not the out- 
come of the wild excitement in which " The 
Chimes " was conceived, but lighted by the steady 
glow of home life, in which Dickens always took 
lasting pleasure. This story was not written in 
such a heat; in fact, he had a number of ideas and 
projects in his mind, that restless, brilliant mind, 
that seriously interfered with anything like steady 
writing, but in spite of many drawbacks this " Fairy 
Tale of Home " was published in 1846, and brought 
real success to the author, more than he had counted 
on, more than he had imagined possible from the 
theme of the simple little story. He was '* sick, 
bothered, and depressed " during the writing of it, 
and his many duties in all directions kept him from 
those long walks in which he rejoiced, and, truth 
to tell, it did not seem to him such a burst of inspi- 
ration as did the two others. But the great world 
of readers thought otherwise, and when at Christ- 
mas, 1845, " The Cricket on the Hearth " began to 
chirp, the blithe, cheery sound found a welcome far 
and near. 

What matter that the tale was built upon the com- 
mon things in life — among the common people. 
What matter that the Cricket on the Hearth had a 
rival in the Kettle on the Hob! What matter that 
the Carrier was only a bluff, hearty, simple fellow ! 



THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 213 

He could understand the chirp of the Cricket as 
well as Mrs, Dot, his plump and pretty little wife. 
Was there ever a happier household than the House 
of Peeryhingle, which included the Carrier and his 
little wife and the blessed Baby, and Boxer — the 
dog, and Tilly Slowhoy — the Baby's special 
attendant. 

Boxer usually accompanied the Carrier on his 
rounds — {John was a parcel carrier, and this was 
Christmas) and made himself quite one of the fam- 
ily, ..." now feigning to make savage 
rushes at his mistress, and facetiously bringing him- 
self to sudden stops; now eliciting a shriek from 
Tilly Slowboy in the low nursing-chair near the fire, 
by the unexpected application of his moist noise to 
her countenance ; now exhibiting an obtrusive inter- 
est in the Baby; now going round and round upon 
the hearth, and lying down as if he had established 
himself for the night; now getting up again and 
taking that nothing of a fag-end of that tail of 
his, out into the weather, as if he had just remem- 
bered an appointment and was off at a round trot 
to keep it/' 

With the Cricket chirping and the Kettle singing, 
and the Carrier just home — out of the cold, there 
must, of course, be a feast. 

'' ' There ! There's the tea-pot ready on the 
hob ! ' said Dot ; as briskly busy as a child at play 
at keeping house. ' And there's the cold knuckle i 
of ham; and there's the butter; and there's the . 
15 



214 CHARLES DICKENS. 

crusty loaf and all! Here's the clothes-basket for 
the small parcels, John, if you've got any there — 
Where are you, John ? Don't let the dear child fall 
under the grate, Tilly, whatever you do ! ' " 

And Tilly Slowhoy — was there ever such a de- 
licious bit of clumsiness as the poor little workhouse 
girl ** whose constant astonishment at finding her- 
self so kindly treated " was really pathetic. But 
Mrs. Dot knew that poorTi% had an absent-minded 
way of getting the Bahy into difficulties, occasion- 
ally knocking its head against " deal-doors, dressers, 
stair-rails, bedposts, and other foreign substances." 
Miss Slowhoy had many of the distinguishing traits 
of the Marchioness: 

" She was of a spare and straight shape, this 
young lady, insomuch that her garments appeared 
to be in constant danger of sliding off those sharp 
pegs, her shoulders, on which they were hung." 
And she had very startling ways of saying and 
doing unexpected things — had Miss Slowhoy, but 
the Bahy was used to her, and she was used to the 
Bahy, and somehow they never came to serious 
grief. 

There were other homes in the story, not quite 
so happy or so cheerful, poor old Caleh Plummer's, 
for instance. 

" Caleb Plummer and his Blind Daughter lived 
all alone by themselves in a little cracked nutshell 
of a wooden house " — it belonged to Tackleton, 
the Toy-Maker, who was always called Gruff and 



THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 215 

Tackleton, for, though his partner was dead, the 
name was quite suited to Tackleton, the task-mas- 
ter and the money-squeezer, and the Plummers both 
worked for him. 

It was an awful, shaky old place to live in, but 
Bertha, the Blind Girl did not know " that the ceil- 
ings were discolored; walls blotched and bare of 
plaster here and there; high crevices untopped and 
widening every day ; beams mouldering and tending 
downward. The Blind Girl never knew that iron 
was rusting, wood rotting, paper peeling off; the 
very size and shape and true proportion of the 
dwelling withering away. The Blind Girl never 
knew that ugly shapes of delf and earthen ware 
were on the board; that sorrow and faint hearted- 
ness were in the house; that Caleb's scanty hairs 
were turning greyer and more grey before her 
sightless face." 

All this and more was Caleb's doing — " But he, 
too, had a Cricket on his Hearth, and listening 
sadly to its music, when the motherless Blind Child 
was very young, that Spirit had inspired him with 
the thought that even her great deprivation might 
be almost changed into a blessing, and the girl 
made happy by these little means." 

Caleb and his daughter worked together on Dolls 
and their houses. " There were houses finished 
and unfinished, for Dolls of all stations of life. 
Suburban tenements for Dolls of moderate means; 
kitchens and single apartments for Dolls of the 



2l6 CHARLES DICKENS. 

lower classes; capital town residences for Dolls 
of high estate. Some of these establishments were 
already furnished according to estimate, with a 
view to the convenience of Dolls of limited income; 
others could be fitted on the most expensive scale 
from whole shelves of chairs and tables, sofas, bed- 
steads and upholstery. The nobility and gentry 
and public in general, for whose accommodation 
these tenements were designed, lay here and there 
in baskets, staring straight up at the ceiling. . . . 
The Doll-lady of distinction had wax limbs of per- 
fect symmetry; . . . the next grade in the so- 
cial scale being made of leather; and the next — of 
coarse linen stuff. As to the common-people, they 
had just so many matches out of tinder-boxes for 
their arms and legs, and there they were — estab- 
lished in their sphere at once, beyond the possibility 
of getting out of it." 

What child could pass these vivid descriptions 
by. Toy-making is always fascinating, and Caleb 
and his blind daughter were dexterous workers. 

There's a Mystery in the simple story and a 
Secret — Dofs Secret — and there's feasting and 
a wedding, and all the dear delightful things that 
go to make up everyday life, and it all turns out 
happily in the end, and everything is merry as it 
should be; for we are given to understand that 
wherever the Cricket chirps loudest on the hearth, 
there is found the happiest home. 

There has been another emblem of happiness 



THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS. 217 

lately discovered by Mr. Maurice Maeterlinck; it 
has the shape of a Bluebird, and it soars to strange 
countries, whither questioning children long to fol- 
low ; but the Cricket — Dickens's Cricket — is al- 
ways on the Hearth, and we real mortals — (and 
Dickens always wrote of real mortals — in spite 
of the Goblins and the Spirits) — 

Must stoop for happiness, 
If we its worth would know. 

Doing the things which lie nearest to us was 
Dickens's simple creed, in the writing of his 
Christmas stories and in his Christmas spirit; 
homely little services from the rich to the poor; 
from the poor to each other. Dickens was a 
great preacher. How great, he himself never 
knew. 

From that time forward the Christmas story 
became a feature of his life, and the world always 
looked for some Christmas message in some little 
gem of thought and feeling. He gave us " The 
Haunted Man," "The Battle of Life," "Some- 
body's Luggage," " Mrs. Lirriper's Lodgings," 
" Dr. Marigold," and a host of others, for genera- 
tions to read and enjoy. 

After Dickens's day, the Christmas story still 
held its place in the popular heart; even to-day we 
look eagerly for the Christmas number among our 
many magazines, and hunt for the stories. Some 
are strong, some are weak and unconvincing, yet 



2l8 CHARLES DICKENS. 

they breathe of Christmas, if ever so faintly, and 
we try to be satisfied. 

But Dickens, with his lusty tales, gave us the 
very Spirit of Christmas; there is the strength of 
the pioneer in this work of his, and all of us, young 
and old, turn to him again and again with the com- 
ing of the Yule-tide. 



CHAPTER XL 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS''s DAY. 




HE years that intervened between the 
writing of his novels were always rest- 
less years for the great author. The 
active mind, forever groping towards 
some higher ideal, was never better poised than 
when working out the intricate details of his stories, 
living in a dream world — dealing with dream 
people. 

The interval between " The Cricket on the 
Hearth " and " Dombey and Son " was even more 
than usually restless. Indeed, restlessness was at 
the very root of his genius. After his return from 
America he found the year at home very trying 
— he wanted to see more of the world, so he went 
to Italy. He stayed long enough to become ac- 
customed to the life and to the people of Genoa; 
then he wanted to travel through Italy, which he 
did — looked into the crater of Mt. Vesuvius — 
then back to Genoa, and then homesickness again, 
and Devonshire Terrace again, taking in Switzer- 
land on the w^ay back. 

"What a beautiful country it is!" he writes. 
219 



220 CHARLES DICKENS. 

" How poor and shrunken beside it is Italy in its 
brightest aspect." 

This glimpse of Switzerland haunted him — it 
was such a small one, he longed for more — but 
home called him and he went. There was a short 
interval of rest before he settled down to work 
again, when he and his friends became stage-struck, 
and decided to give a play. They rented Miss 
Kelly's theater for one night, and produced Ben 
Jonson's " Every Man in his Humor." The first 
performance took place September 21, 1845, ^^^ 
was so great a success in a private way that an- 
other performance was given in a larger theater, 
to which the public were admitted, and the pro- 
ceeds were given to charity. Dickens had excep- 
tional gifts as an actor, and he often said that he 
would have been as successful " on the boards as 
he had been between them " (meaning the bindings 
of his books), had he devoted his time to it. 

After this he went to Broadstairs for a short 
holiday, and on October 28, 1845, his sixth child 
and fourth son, Alfred Tennyson Dickens, was 
born. 

Later he became deeply interested in the politics of 
the day; he wrote timely verses for The Examiner 
and short articles for the Morning Chronicle, but, 
not content with becoming a paid contributor on a 
daily paper, he was soon drawn into the giant 
scheme of editing a daily paper himself. Forster, 
knowing his friend's temperament, urged him 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS'S DAY. 221 

against it; but Dickens, who was never happy un- 
less he had some sort of a periodical in charge, 
was eager for the experiment, and consequently on 
January 21, 1846, was launched in London the first 
issue of the Daily News, which holds its own to-day 
as one of the foremost of the London papers. 

Dickens became the editor-in-chief, and his edi- 
torial staff was a powerful one. Both his father 
and his father-in-law held prominent positions, 
and many of his most intimate friends fell in line 
with him. It was a wonderful start for a news- 
paper, with such a name as Charles Dickens to 
head the working force; it was strongly backed, 
and, with such an energetic worker at the helm, 
it could not fail to steer into success. There was 
a magnetism about this man, young as he was, 
which one scarcely believes to-day. 

Into the Daily News went, number by number, 
the " Travelling Sketches " of Italy, afterwards 
published under the title of " Pictures from Italy," 
in book form. 

The editing of a daily paper involved more labor 
and worry than Dickens, in the first flush of en- 
thusiasm, ever imagined. He could not bear the 
mechanical drudgery, and after a few weeks he 
decided to resign his post, which passed — for the 
rest of the year — into the hands of John Forster. 

Interested as he was in politics and the affairs of 
the world, this was plainly not the mission of 
Charles Dickens ; he was beginning to feel the need 



222 CHARLES DICKENS. 

of being closer to his world of readers than the 
columns of a newspaper would permit, and no one 
knew better than himself what work pleased his 
readers most. In truth, there was a new book 
buzzing in his head. He began to wander at night 
in strange nooks and corners of London, as he al- 
ways did when the writing spell came upon him. 
He began to long for some quiet place, and to feel 
that London — with its political stir and the infant 
newspaper in which he was still too much inter- 
ested — was not just then what he wanted. In- 
deed, we know enough of this restless young man 
to understand that where he was, was never where 
he wished to be, and, however trying such a dis- 
position might have been to those about him, it 
certainly gave great results to the world. 

Where he wanted to be just now was in Switzer- 
land, but there were many things to be done before- 
hand. The " Cricket on the Hearth " was com- 
pleted for Christmas, and the " Travelling 
Sketches " were concluded in the Daily News, 
gathered together, and issued in book form under 
the title of '' Pictures from Italy," and in his 
preface he tells his readers frankly that he has 
made a mistake in interrupting — even for a short 
while — their old relations, adding, " I am now 
about to resume them joyfully in Switzerland; 
where, during another year of absence, I can at 
once work out the themes I have now in my mind, 
without interruption." 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS'S DAY. 223 

Then, too, a longing for the old home came over 
him, and on his birthday, 1846, a congenial party 
— consisting of himself and his wife. Miss Ho- 
garth, Maclise, Jerrold and Forster — went to 
Rochester to celebrate, stopped at the " Bull " Inn, 
which " Pickwick " had made famous, and visited 
all his favorite spots in the neighborhood. Again 
the " small boy " wandered in spirit over the 
Kentish hills, and once more he showed his friends 
the Gad's Hill of his dreams. He was nearer to 
it now, but still not near enough to take it as his 
own. He only liked to look at it once in a while, 
and wonder how long it would be before he would 
reach his heart's desire. 

He left England the end of May, 1846, having 
tented his house in Devonshire Terrace for one 
year, and reached Lausanne, Switzerland, early in 
June. Here in this beautiful spot he secured a 
villa smothered in roses, " beautifully situated on a 
hill that rises from the lake," while his study looked 
out upon the water and the mountains. His pretty 
resting-place was appropriately called *' Rose- 
mont," and here, when his usual box of materials 
had arrived from London, he settled down to write 
in earnest; he never could write without these 
quaint little bronze figures on his desk, his blue 
ink, and his quill pens. How any genius could 
flow from the scratching point of a quill pen, it 
is hard to understand, but Charles Dickens — ta 
the end of his days — wrote with no other. 



224 CHARLES DICKENS. 

There are no such geniuses — more's the pity ! 
in these days of fountain-pens, but perhaps we will 
have one some day; there may be some little 
" Kindergartner " even now, whose great brain 
may be developing into a Dickens or a Thackeray 
or a Scott, or even a Shakespeare; there may be 
some childish voices now singing " Tra-la-la " in 
baby chorus, that may be able to move a world 
when the voice gets deeper and the child becomes 
a man — who knows ! 

At any rate, Dickens was busy enough before 
the arrival of his magic box; he wrote an article 
on the Ragged Schools, for Sir John Russell, and 
a good deal for Miss Coutts (afterwards Baroness 
Burdett-Coutts, the millionaire and philanthropist), 
in reference to her charitable work, and about half 
of the New Testament, which he was simplifying 
for his children's use, and then — 

''Began Dombey!" 

he writes with italics and exclamations. 

He considered this book an era, and no doubt 
it was. It was a great book with a great theme. 
It was called " Dombey and Son," though for the 
pathos and the pity of it all, it might have been 
better named " Dombey and Daughter " ; the 
" Son " is but a shadow — the " Daughter," the 
real dominant character of the book. Never for a 
moment through the intricate windings of the 
story do we lose sight of the pathetic figure of- 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS'S DAY. 225 

Florence Domhey, this girl of girls, the most com- 
plete and perfectly girlish girl that Dickens, up to 
this period, has ever given us. 

We first see the pretty little girl at the bedside 
of her dying mother; only one heart was aching in 
that heavy, silent place, v^here the loud ticking of 
Mr. Dombey's watch and the Doctor's watch ran 
a race in the hush and silence. Then it was over, 
and she was alone — quite alone, for " the blue 
coat and stiff white cravat, which, with a pair of 
creaking boots and a very loud ticking watch, em- 
bodied her idea of a father " was nothing to her 
but an image to be shunned whenever it was pos- 
sible. 

Who knows what would have become of the little 
girl during those first dark days in the grim house, 
had it not been for the new brother. The servants 
in the shadowed house were kind, but one word 
from her father, one glance of kindly notice — all 
that the child really craved — never came her way. 
She ate her little heart out in silent grief and sor- 
row, until the kind-hearted servants gave her the 
comfort she needed. 

" ' What have they done with my mamma ? ' in- 
quired this little mourner of six years. 

" * . . . Come nearer here, my dear Miss,' ** 
said good Polly Toodles [known as Richards, when 
installed as the nurse of little Paul]. 'Don't be 
afraid of me.' 

" ' I am not afraid of you,' said the child, draw- 



226 CHARLES DICKENS. 

ing nearer. * But I want to know what they have 
done with my mamma.' 

" * My darling/ said Richards, ' you wear that 
pretty black frock in remembrance of your 
mamma.' 

" ' I can remember my mamma,' returned the 
child, with tears springing to her eyes, * in any 
frock.' 

" * But people put on black to remember people 
when they're gone.' 

" * Where gone ? ' asked the child. 

" * Come and sit down by me,' said Richards, 
' and I'll tell you a story.' " 

And from the lips of this homely, workaday 
woman, fell the beautiful story of death and the 
life hereafter, told as only a simple, untutored soul 
could tell it, and the little girl listened with dark 
eyes full of understanding, and clasped her arms 
around the good nurse's neck. 

" ' And the child's heart,' said Polly, drawing 
her to her breast, ' the little daughter's heart was 
so full of the truth of this, that even when she 
heard it from a strange nurse that couldn't tell it 
right . . . she found a comfort in it — didn't 
feel so lonely — sobbed and cried upon her bosom 
— ' took kindly to the baby lying in her lap — and 
— there, there, there ! ' said Polly, smoothing the 
child's curls and dropping tears upon them. 
* There, poor dear ! ' " 

What little Florence would have done without 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS'S DAY. 227 

this homely sympathy there is no telling; but the 
sensitive child was touched in the right spot and 
at the right moment, to keep her baby heart from 
breaking. 

Her own special attendant, Susan Nipper, seemed 
to Florence quite an ancient person — indeed, she 
was at least fourteen — and her sharp, jerky ways 
and biting tongue earned her the name of " Spit- 
fire " ; but she was a wholesome, kindly girl for all 
that, and, like Mrs. T oodles, her heart ached for 
her lonely charge, while her black eyes — we al- 
ways remember Susan Nipper's black eyes — 
flashed and snapped when she saw her little mis- 
tress imposed upon. 

Girls were not much cared for in the Dombey 
household. Indeed, the girls of Dickens's day 
were shy, retiring little creatures, tucked away out 
of sight behind their big brothers. Mr. Dombey, 
the head of the house, was in truth no different 
from a thousand other pompous gentlemen of the 
same stamp. To have an heir was his ambition. 
Florence, the first-born, being " only a girl," was 
made to feel from the beginning that she was a 
mistake. Her father, absorbed in his great busi- 
ness, buried in plans for the future welfare of 
Dombey and Son, thought of her not at all, but only 
of the baby boy upon whom his selfish hopes were 
centered. 

In the creation of little Florence, Charles Dickens 
became the champion of all the little neglected girl- 



228 CHARLES DICKENS. 

hood in the EngHsh realm. There were many such 
grim homes as Mr. Dombey's, and many pieces of 
iron and flint Hke Mr. Dombey, men who lived 
only in the hope of perpetuating their empty names, 
and consequently the more small boys they had, to 
carry that name through coming generations, the 
better pleased were they. Therefore the little girls 
picked up an education as best they could, lived 
as best they could, grew up as best they could, and 
if they chanced — by some happy accident — to 
be pretty or interesting, why, perhaps these lords 
of creation, the small boys, now grown to be big 
boys, might be attracted by them, and marriage 
would follow, and what was supposed to be the 
highest ambition of any sensible little girl from 
her cradle, would be happily accomplished. 

Florence Donibey not only had the indifference 
of her father to battle with, but there was besides 
always a smouldering fire of jealousy, which some- 
times burned with the glow of hate. This quiet, 
gentle girl had the power to attract the very people 
whom he wished to draw nearer to himself. His 
dying wife had eyes only for Florence, and ears 
only for her whispered word; his little son turned 
only to Floy, as he called her, and the beautiful 
woman who, in the course of years, became his 
second wife had only one wholesome, human pas- 
sion, and that was for Florence. 

Dickens has given us some beautiful portraits 
cf this lonely, lovable girl. The first picture is 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS'S DAY. 229 

at her mother's bedside; next we see her as her 
father did one day — " toiling up the great, wide, 
vacant staircase " with her little brother in her 
arms ; " his head was lying on her shoulder, one 
of his arms thrown negligently around her neck. 
So they went toiling up; she singing all the way, 
and Paul sometimes crooning out a feeble accom- 
paniment. Mr. Dombey looked after them until 
they reached the top of the staircase — not with- 
out halting to rest by the way — and passed out 
of sight; and then he stood gazing upward, until 
the dull rays of the moon, glimmering in a melan- 
choly manner through the dim skylight, sent him 
back to his own room." 

Had little Paul lived, Mr. Dombey might in time 
have shown some shadow of kindness to his beau- 
tiful little daughter, for love of him, but this was 
not to be, for Paul soon faded and died, and 
Florence lived only to remind her father that he 
had lost the one hope of his life, that Dombey 
and Son would be but an empty name in days 
to come. 

We see her as the tender nurse of her dying 
brother, old beyond her years, because of the 
lonely secluded life she led in the great house, 
away from other little girls. She was only twelve, 
and Paul was six, but she was a woman in every 
thought and feeling. 

The love between this little brother and sister 

shines through the whole book. Even when Paul 
IG 



230 CHARLES DICKENS. 

had left her, the memory of him stirred always 
in her heart, and his feeling for her was one of 
the most pathetic bits of child-love. Only once in 
his short life were they ever separated, and that 
was when he went to Dr. Blimher's Select School. 
Even then Florence hovered near him, for Dr. 
Blimher's School was at Brighton, and Mrs. Pip- 
chin's house, where Florence stopped, was just 
around the corner. 

The little boy, so good, so gentle, and so frail, 
never played with the young gentlemen of Dr. 
Blimber's School; he used to sit for hours watch- 
ing the Sea from the window of his little bedroom ; 
he loved to see the ships moving upon the bosom 
of the deep waters. 

He had the quaintest ideas about things-— 
that baby boy — to him the sails of the tiny 
boats looked like waving white arms beckoning him 
to follow ; where — the child could not tell, but far, 
far away, farther than India, which to an English 
child seemed very far indeed. 

When the evenings grew longer, " Paul stole up 
to his window to look for Florence. She always 
passed and repassed at a certain time, until she saw 
him, and their mutual recognition was a gleam of 
sunshine in Paul's daily life." 

His father came, too, but Paul did not know it, 
for the reserved and haughty man came at night, 
when none could see him looking up at his son's 
windows. 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS'S DAY. 231 

Then came that time when Florence never left 
her brother, when he said in his feeble way: 

*' * Now lay me down, and, Floy, come close to 
me and let me see you.' 

" Sister and brother wound their arms around 
each other, and the golden light came streaming 
in, and fell upon them, locked together. 

" * How fast the river runs between its green 
banks and the rushes, Floy ! But it's very near the 
sea, I hear the waves ! They always said so ! ' 

" Presently he told her that the motion of the 
boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest. How 
green the banks were now, how bright the flowers 
growing on them, and how tall the rushes! Now 
the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on. 
And now there was a shore before him. Who 
stood on the bank ? — 

" He put his hands together as he did at his 
prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it, 
but they saw him fold them so behind her 
neck. 

" * Mamma is like you, Floy, I know her by the 
face. But tell them that the print upon the stairs 
at school is not divine enough. The light about 
the head is shining on me as I go ! ' 

" The old ripple on the wall came back again, 
and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, 
old fashion! The fashion that came in with our 
first garments, and will last unchanged until our 
race has run its course and the wide firmament is 



232 CHARLES DICKENS. 

rolled up like a scroll The old, old fashion — 
Death ! 

" Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older 
fashion yet, of Immortality! And look upon us, 
angels of young children, with regards not quite 
estranged, when the swift river bears us to the 
ocean ! " 

That Dickens was a man of deep religious feel- 
ing, no one can doubt, after reading this beautiful 
description, which is only one of many similar 
descriptions scattered through his books. 

It has grown the fashion to say that the pathos 
of such scenes is terribly over-rated, that Dickens 
was apt to grow absurdly sentimental at such times, 
and many other similar things. There is only one 
answer to these up-to-date, modern people — who 
think Dickens old-fashioned. Let them read the 
death of little Paul, and if they can see that gentle 
little child, loosening his hold of life; that tender, 
desolate sister clinging to the frail body; if they can 
see this quite unmoved and can turn from these 
pages with undimmed eyes — why, the fault lies 
within themselves and not in Dickens, who wept 
— himself — as if his heart would break, over the 
death of his favorite. 

There is another picture of Florence, sad and 
lonely, in the great shut-up house where "there 
was no one nearer and dearer than Susan, to up- 
hold the striving heart in its anguish. Was there 
no other neck to clasp; no other face to turn to; 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS'S DAY. 233 

no one else to say a soothing word to such deep 
sorrow? Was Florence so alone in the bleak 
world that nothing else remained to her? Nothing. 
Stricken motherless and brotherless at once, for 
in the loss of little Paul, that first and greatest loss 
fell heavily upon her — this was the only help she 
had." 

Was it any wonder, then, that she loved Susan 
Nipper; the black-eyed little maid with the sharp 
tongue and the soft heart grew to be very dear to 
her young mistress, who presently began to pick 
up the threads of her sad life. Think of it, chil- 
dren with loving fathers! Think of this beautiful 
young girl, shut up in her own rooms! while her 
father, locked in his, would not look upon her 
face. 

There was a house across the way where some 
rosy children lived; they were four little mother- 
less girls, and they had a father who made pets of 
them. Poor, hungry Florence watched them 
from behind her heavy curtains; she did not envy 
them, it was not their father she wanted. Her 
own was downstairs, all alone in his gloomy rooms, 
and she dared not go to him. 

" Sometimes when no one in the house was stir- 
ring . . . she would softly leave her own 
room, and with noiseless feet descend the stair- 
case and approach her father's door. Against it 
— scarcely breathing — she would rest her face 
and head, and press her lips in the yearning of her 



234 CHARLES DICKENS. 

love. She crouched on the stone floor outside it 
every night — to listen even for his breath, and 
in her one absorbing wish to show him some af- 
fection, to be a consolation to him, to win him 
over to the endurance of some tenderness from her 
— his solitary child; she would have knelt down 
at his feet if she had dared, in humble supplica- 
tion." 

But other friends were coming to brighten her 
days. First of all there was Mr. Toots, Paul's 
schoolmate at Dr. Blimher's, and with him came 
Diogenes, the B limbers' dog, of whom Paul had 
been so fond, a rough, shaggy, ill-mannered dog, 
but a most important character, for Florence never 
parted with him, and Di, as she called him, was ever 
faithful in his love for his little mistress. 

There is a sweet love story built around the 
lonely girl, who soon found that the home of 
Solomon Gills, the instrument maker, was the 
dearest spot on earth, because Walter Gay, his 
nephew, lived there, and Walter was all that a 
young girl most admired in a young man, and so 
they were married. Their love rose out of the 
mist of sadness, for " Dombey and Son " is, after 
all, the story of the rise and fall of a haughty, 
heartless man, a man whose ambition was no 
greater than his pride, and both were dragged in 
the dust. 

The famous Captain Cuttle, with his- iron hook 
instead of a hand, and his big, benevolent heart, is 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS'S DAY. 235 

a portrait from life, also Solomon Gills; and the 
sign of the "Little Midshipman" is still to be 
seen, though he keeps guard upon a bracket in 
front of a more pretentious place of business. 
Mrs, Skewton, Mrs. Pipchin, and Little Paul 
himself were all living portraits, while the Toodle 
family has become so well-known among the 
readers of Dickens that they seem quite real and 
substantial. Even Miss Cornelia Blimher could 
be traced, for Dickens's son Charles remembers a 
young lady equally as intellectual who helped her 
father in a small school which he attended. 

Learned girls of Dickens's day were suspicious 
characters, even Florence never went to school 
after she was fourteen; indeed, her education was 
the very last thing considered, and looking back 
upon the story, which covers all those years when 
she should have been studying, it is hard to under- 
stand how she ever learned to read and write. 
But in some mysterious way these things came to 
her. Perhaps her aunt, stupid Mrs. Chick, who 
never received credit for anything sensible, had 
some ideas of her own concerning girls, and, no 
doubt — being a kind-hearted person — saw to it 
that her little niece received some instruction of 
some kind. 

Edith Dombey, Florence's beautiful stepmother, 
had many outside accomplishments ; she could sing 
and play the harp and piano, and she could also 
draw, but girls of that day never discussed books. 



236 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Florence helped her little brother with his studies, 
and Dr. Blimber set no easy tasks, so we may rea- 
sonably suppose that in the intervals, when Florence 
was not thinking of her sad lot, she was training 
her active young mind. 

It is doubtful if girls in Susan Nipper's station 
ever learned how to do more than read and write, 
though that young person, being exceptionally 
clever, may have caught up the little accomplish- 
ments that Florence possessed. At any rate, her 
remarkable flow of language and her quaint way of 
saying things, made her quite an unusual girl. 

" Dombey and Son " marked an era in Charles 
Dickens's life; it stamped him for all time as a 
Novelist. The innumerable other things which 
he did by the way were mere incidents in his career, 
though they were most important incidents, and 
lived because he put his life and energy into them. 
There were several Christmas stories written be- 
tween his greater efforts ; there were two between 
"Dombey" and " Copperfield "— " The Battle of 
Life " and " The Haunted Man." There was also 
a new periodical. Household Words, started in 
1850, some months before he finished " David Cop- 
perfield," and there were innumerable articles, and 
letters, and verses, and essays, and short stories, 
and many journeys and theatricals, and Heaven 
knows what — to vary the life of this restless 
young writer. And here it may be interesting to 
know that in 1848, when plans were afoot for the 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS'S DAY. 237 

purchase and preservation of Shakespeare's home 
at Strat ford-on- A von, he did all that he could to 
help. He joined a company of distinguished 
amateurs — himself the star — and they gave nine 
performances in provincial towns, realizing over 
twenty-five hundred pounds. 

Two other little Dickenses — Sidney Smith and 
Henry Fielding — were born between the writing 
of '' Dombey " and " Copperfield/' and their ninth 
child, Httle Dora, came during the writing of 
" David Copperfield," shortly after the death of 
David's Child-wife. 

Dickens began to think of this new serial some- 
time around the close of 1848. " Dombey " had 
appeared and was well received. It was Forster's 
proposition that this novel should be written in the 
first person, and, acting also on Forster's hint, 
Dickens decided to put some of his own life into 
the pages. Early in the new year (1849) he 
visited Great Yarmouth, which he considered one 
of the strangest places in the world — " One hun- 
dred and forty-six miles of hill-less marsh between 
it and London, ... I shall certainly try my 
hand at it." This was the site of the Peggottys' 
home, and Dickens actually saw the old boat which 
these simple fishermen turned into a home. 

The simplicity, beauty, and truth of " David 
Copperfield " is especially remarkable at this period, 
for the great world was beginning to recognize 
the genial qualities of the " Inimitable Boz," as he 



238 CHARLES DICKENS. 

was often called, and he was feted by everyone. 
This did not turn his head, but it tickled his vanity, 
and his besetting sin was vanity. He was vain of 
his position, of his work, of the esteem in which 
he was held, of his appearance, which was always 
most attractive, of the very clothes he wore, and his 
fondness for gaudy colors became almost a personal 
trait; but, for all that, he was as simple as a child 
when it came to writing this wonderful story of 
his life, and we have already seen how closely en- 
twined was the little boyhood of David Copper field 
and that of Charles Dickens. 

It was the first story Dickens ever wrote in which 
his young hero was anything more than a figure on 
which to hang a plot. David's personality is very 
strong, perhaps because we know his origin. At 
any rate, never for an instant do we forget that 
David moves through almost every incident, not 
as a pleasing background, but as an acting force. 

Then, too, the girls who figure in the story are 
drawn with a skill and a knowledge which show 
him to be the father of two interesting little maids 
of his own. They were quite good-sized girls now, 
able to take some interest in their father's writing 
and to add much to his home enjoyment, for Devon- 
shire Terrace was gay with much company, and 
dancing and music often wound up a happy even- 
ing. 

Twelfth Night — the birthday of young Charles 
Dickens — was always celebrated in fine style, and 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS'S DAY. 239 

on one occasion, in preparing for the festivity, 
the two girls undertook to teach their father the 
Polka step. He was an apt pupil, but on the night 
before the party he had a wild feeling that he had 
forgotten the step. It was very cold in the early 
hours of the morning, but he leaped out of bed, 
and practiced it to his heart's content — in the 
dark. These girls of his were a continual source 
of delight and interest to him, and it was only 
natural that the girl faces that appeared in his 
books should be fair and charming. 

There was always something pathetic about his 
girls. There seemed always in their young lives 
some hint of shadow. There was for instance al- 
ways the mist of the sea about Little Em'ly. The 
fair child — much as she graced the quaint old 
boat-home — seemed always in spirit on the beach, 
for she was a child of the sea; she never knew 
in her innocent girlhood what lay in the life be- 
yond. David, in describing one of their numerous 
walks, speaks of her fearlessness, as the giant 
breakers thundered on the beach. 

" ' I'm not afraid of it this way,' said little 
Em'ly. ' But I wake when it blows, and tremble 
to think of Uncle Dan and Ham, and believe I 
hear 'em crying out for help. . . . But I'm 
not afraid in this way. Not a bit. Look here ! ' 

'' She started from my side and ran along the 
jagged timber which protruded from the place we 
stood upon, and overhung the deep water at some 



240 CHARLES DICKENS. 

height — without the least defense. The incident 
is so impressed on my remembrance that if I were 
a draughtsman, I could draw its form here, I dare 
say, accurately as it was that day, and little Em'ly 
springing forward to her destruction (as it ap- 
peared to me), with a look I have never forgotten, 
directed far out to sea. 

" The light, bold, fluttering little figure turned 
and came back safe to me, and I soon laughed at my 
fears, and the cry I had uttered fruitlessly in any 
case, for there w^as no one near." 

Poor Little Em'ly, with her pretty face and 
dainty ways, with her hope some day of being a 
lady — how much better it would have been if 
her sure foot had slipped that time, and the huge 
breaker had wrapped her round and carried her 
out to the deep sea where her father lay. Later 
we see her a dainty creature in the first flush of 
innocent girlhood, such a charming girl, with her 
blue eyes and sunny curls, and her shy, quiet ways, 
the promised wafe of her brawny cousin Ham. 
And last of all we see the pitiful wreck of the gay 
little craft — the broken, sorrowful young woman, 
going away to a new world to begin a new life. 
A brave girl, after all, was Little Em'ly, willing 
to live her poor little life as best she could. 

" ' I wonder if you could see my Em'ly now, 
Mas'r Davy, whether you'd know her,' " said old 
Peggotty, on the occasion of a visit to his old 
friends. 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS'S DAY. 241 

*' * Is she so altered ? ' I inquired. 

" * I doen't know. I see her ev'ry day and doen't 
know; but odd times, I have thowt so. A sHght 
figure,' said Mr. Peggotty, looking at the fire, 
* kiender worn; soft, sorrowful blue eyes; a deli- 
cate face; a pritty head leaning a Httle down; a 
quiet voice and way — timid a'most. That's 
Em'ly!' 

" *. . . She might have married well a mort 
of times, " but. Uncle," she says to me, " that's 
gone forever." Cheerful along with me ; retired 
when others is by; fond of going any distance fur 
to teach a child, or fur to tend a sick person, or 
fur to do some kindness tow'rd a young girl's wed- 
ding (and she's done a-many, but has never seen 
one); fondly loving of her uncle; patient, liked 
by young and old; sowt out by all that has any 
trouble. That's Em'ly.'" 

Another picture, an exquisite miniature, rises be- 
fore us. A girl so young, she seemed indeed a 
child. A veritable fairy was Dora Spenlow, an 
angel in blue with golden ringlets and blue eyes. 
Could anyone help falling in love with her ? Could 
David, who always fell captive to every beautiful 
face? But this was more than a passing fancy. 
Little Dora held him fast by a silken thread, so 
strong that only death could break it. David had 
married a child, a sweet, lovely, lovable child, 
whose greatest joy was to " help " him, as she 
fondly imagined, by sitting on a low stool beside 



242 CHARLES DICKENS. 

him and holding his pens. That solemn duty over, 
she would romp with Jip, her spaniel, and blunder 
over her simple housekeeping in the most adorable 
manner. David loved her as a pretty plaything, 
but her little head with its wealth of golden curls 
held nothing beyond a few loving thoughts which 
she lavished upon " Doady," as she called him. 

There are many Doras in the world, gay little 
trifling Doras, who dance through it without a 
care, and somehow when they go out of it, as Dora 
did, there is a great aching void, much bigger than 
the space they filled in life. For memory twines 
forget-me-nots, and Dora's betrothal ring was 
made of forget-me-nots, as if anyone could for- 
get the darling child. Even when she faded be- 
fore his eyes, she left a shaft of light in her van- 
ishing. 

Dickens spared no pains with this dainty minia- 
ture. *' Little Blossom," as David's aunt. Miss 
Betsey Trotwood, called her, bloomed for a short 
while, drooped and faded, and finally died. But 
we will remember her as we remember all frail 
and beautiful things. Yet while we are sorry that 
David was left desolate in his youth, we cannot 
help thinking that it was the best thing Dora could 
have done. 

" * Oh, Doady,' " she said as she lay dying be- 
fore him, her golden hair spread out upon her 
pillow like an aureole, " * after more years, you 
never could have loved your child-wife better than 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS'S DAY. 243 

you do; and after more years, she would have so 
tried and disappointed you, that you might not 
have been able to love her half so well! I know 
I was too young and foolish. It is much better as 
it is!'*' 

And so it was, for there was Agnes! It is 
rather difficult to describe Agnes. We can best 
do so in David's own words, for his acquaintance 
with her dated from the days of his little boyhood, 
when he went to Dr. Strong's School, and boarded 
with Mr. Wick field, Agnes' s father. 

" Mr. Wickfield tapped at the door in a corner 
of the paneled wall, and a girl of about my own 
age came out and kissed him. On her face I saw 
immediately the placid, sweet expression of the 
lady whose picture had looked at me downstairs. 
It seemed to my imagination as if the portrait had 
grown womanly, and the original remained a child. 
Although her face was quite bright and happy, there 
was a tranquillity about it and about her, a quiet, 
good, calm spirit that I have never forgotten; that 
I never shall forget. 

"... I cannot call to mind where or when, 
in my childhood, I had seen a stained glass window 
in a church. Nor do I recollect its subject. But 
I know that when I saw her turn round in the grave 
light o^ the old staircase and wait for us above, I 
though: of that window; and that I associated 
something of its tranquil brightness with Agnes 
WickfieM ever afterward." 



244 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Through the story this calm presence is always 
with us. Always cheerful, there was yet some- 
thing pathetic in the lonely girlhood of Agnes 
Wickfield. In drawing a character such as this, 
Dickens should have given her companions; in- 
stead, she lived in the old house with an elderly 
father, full of memories and forebodings, and with 
no girls of her own age to share her girlish 
thoughts. It is little wonder then that Agnes — 
even at her youngest — seems quite grown-up, and 
quite natural that David, always looking up to her 
in boyhood, should think of her later on as quite 
beyond his reach. Yet when sorrow touched him, 
there was Agnes, ready to console ; when joy came 
to him, she smiled in sympathy, and in the crown- 
ing moment she came to him as naturally and 
simply as if her place had always been by his side. 

" * Dearest husband ! ' *' she said on their wed- 
ding-day, . . . " ' I have one more thing to 
tell you.' 

" * Let me hear it, love.' 

" * It grows out of the night when Dora died. 
She sent you for me.' 

" * She did.' 

" * She told me that she left me something. Can 
you think w^hat it was ? ' 

" I believed I could. I drew the wife who had 
so long loved me, closer to my side. 

" ' She told me that she made a last request to 
me, and left me a last charge.' 



THE GIRLS OF DICKENS'S DAY. 245 

" ' And it was — ' 

" ' That only I would occupy this vacant place/ 
And Agnes laid her head upon my breast and wept ; 
.and I wept with her, though we were so happy." 

" David Copperfield " was published in Novem- 
ber, 1850, and early in the following year Mrs. 
Dickens and little Baby Dora were very ill. In 
March the baby seemed to be all right, but her 
mother — still delicate — was sent to Great 
Malvern, to get back her strength, leaving her 
husband to care for the children. During her 
absence John Dickens died, and was buried on 
April fifth, so the author was in the midst of 
trouble, but, never neglecting his public duties, he 
agreed to preside at the General Theatrical Fund 
Dinner. In a letter to Thomas Mitton he wrote : 

" I played with little Dora before I went, and 
was told when I left the chair that she had died 
in a moment." 

The news was kept from Dickens until after he 
had made his speech, and then his friends — 
Forster and Mark Lemon — broke it to him as best 
they could. 

In an interesting article on this subject, there is 
published a beautiful letter from Dickens to his 
wife, to prepare her for the sorrow awaiting her 
at home. He says in conclusion : 

" I cannot close without putting the strongest 
entreaty and injunction upon you to come with 
17 



246 CHARLES DICKENS. 

perfect composure, to remember what I have often 
told you, that we can never expect to be exempt 
as to our many children, from the afflictions of 
other parents, and that if when you come I should 
even have to say to you, " Our little baby is dead," 
you are also to do your duty to the rest, and to 
show yourself worthy of the great trust you hold 
in them. If you will only read this steadily, I 
have a perfect confidence in your doing what is 
right. 

" Ever Affectionately, 
" Charles Dickens." 

Then follows a prayer written in the watches 
of that sad night, which he also sent her, a prayer 
on Resignation, which shows the deep religious 
streak in Dickens's character. Little Dora's death 
cast a shadow on the happy feeling of work well 
done, which " David Copperfield " naturally in- 
spired, but Dickens was not one to brood over 
these inevitable trials. He had so much to live 
for — 'with his wife, his blooming family, his still 
vigorous manhood — for he was only thirty-nine — 
and his ever increasing fame, that he could not 
well repine. 

The years had brought their changes, among 
them the death of his beloved sister Fanny, but 
there was work to do and the will to do it, the 
strong, indomitable will, which was the secret of 
his genius and success. 



CHAPTER XII. 

LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS IN DICKENS-LAND. 




N the life of Charles Dickens there were 
two or three ruling passions. His love 
of Christmas we have seen; his love of 
animals was well-known; but his love 
of home was beyond all words. No matter where 
his restless feet carried him, into what strange and 
foreign countries they might journey, wherever 
they rested was home, and the vision of home 
brightened all the best of his books. Consequently 
his pictures of girls are always fairest when they 
emerge from the background of home. 

It may be a pretty home, or a sordid poverty- 
stricken hole in the wall ; it may be in two rooms — 
it may be in ten — these are mere outward circum- 
stances. Home is where the hearth is, and the 
little housekeepers who carried their keys jingling 
in a small basket were the fairy spirits of home. 

Sometimes, alas! housekeeping was reduced to 
such a slender portion of the day's work that there 
was not even a cupboard to which a key could be 
fitted ; when the poor provisions went straight from 
the small venders into the hungry mouths; where 
** setting things to rights " meant shaking up the 

247 



248 CHARLES DICKENS. 

poor beds, dusting the rickety furniture, and letting 
the sunshine in through the cracked window-panes. 
But Dickens's Httle heroines had a certain grace in 
doing these things, a certain neatness and deftness 
which made them very attractive, no matter how 
poor they were. Dickens himself was peculiarly 
neat and deft — he hated disorder; his own belong- 
ings were always scrupulously tidy, and the home 
with its hearth brushed, its kettle on the hob, its 
air of human comfort, was always delightful to 
write about, and in all of his stories his girls were 
excellent housekeepers. 

Kate Nickleby was the presiding genius of the 
pretty cottage to which Nicholas brought poor 
Smike, and the forlorn boy used to lie and watch 
her flitting about her daily womanly duties in the 
little home, with a world of pathos in his eyes. 
Dickens dearly loved to add a touch of comfort 
to the home life: the glow of the fire; the com- 
fortable chair; in the background the table set for 
the coming meal; and the graceful figure of a 
girl moving quickly in the energy of " getting " 
supper or dinner, was a pleasing addition to the 
picture. Little Nell never had her chance, but she 
had the home instinct and would have made an 
ideal housekeeper ; for wherever the two poor wan- 
derers chanced to rest, there for the moment was 
home, as cheerful and comfortable as circumstances 
could make it, even though on the morrow they 
might shoulder their bundles and trudge on. In 



LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS IN DICKENS-LAND. 249 

the schoolmaster's small, mean house her fairy pres- 
ence was good to feel, and, had she stayed longer, 
she would have brought the charm of home within 
those humble walls. 

To the Marchioness, indeed, was given her oppor- 
tunity. She made of Dick Swiveller's poor room 
a perfect paradise of coziness and comfort. Her 
little ill-kempt, awkward person flew about this lim- 
ited space, and brought order out of chaos. There 
were no jingling keys, to be sure — she had done 
with keys and keyholes when she left the Brass's — 
but the capable air of the small servant dispelled 
any doubts as to her housekeeping, and when Dick 
Swiveller opened his e3^es at last upon the cheerful 
fire (there was always a cheerful fire) and the air 
of cleanliness and comfort all about him, it is no 
wonder that he cried for very gratitude. 

Gay, inconsequent Dolly Varden was not much 
of a housekeeper, though she was given to bright- 
ening every place with her sweet young presence, 
and doubtless when she became the landlady of the 
Maypole Inn her keys actually did jingle in the 
basket which she carried on her plump arm. 

Was there ever a more lovable little housekeeper 
than Ruth Pinch, and was there ever a nicer per- 
son to keep house for than Brother Tom! She 
didn't know much, to be sure, and he knew less; 
but the bare little place with its poor furniture was 
neat as wax, and it was home, besides, their own 
home, a refuge they had not known for many a 



250 CHARLES DICKENS. 

long year. And what does it matter, after all, 
where one lives — and how, if love is there, smil- 
ing at one's elbow during the creation of a pudding? 

History does not record the fact, but beyond 
doubt Dickens must have been a skilled cook. He 
knew all the little twists and turns, and of one 
thing we may be certain; he could have cooked 
the Cratchifs Christmas pudding as well as Mrs. 
C rat chit herself. 

Mrs. Dot was a finished housekeeper; she seemed 
to know by instinct the sort of coziness her big, 
tired Carrier most appreciated. There was the 
home and the hearth, of course, and undoubtedly 
the Cricket lightened the cares of housekeeping, 
while the Baby lent the finishing touch to the pic- 
ture, though pretty, plump Mrs. Dot was but a 
child in years, herself. Was there anything more 
cheerful than the glow of that fire, the singing of 
that Kettle, and the chirping of that Cricket? And 
all because Mrs. Dot knew how to keep house. 
There was a cold joint if we remember, and many 
other things a hungry man might like on a cold night 
after a long drive, and they both blessed the 
Cricket on the Hearth, though it is our private 
and truthful opinion that it wasn't the Cricket at 
all — he found that hearth very comfortable and 
cozy and home-like — and it was all Mrs. Dot's 
doing! 

Florence Domhey was very inexperienced as a 
housekeeper. It was only when she ran away from 



LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS IN DICKENS-LAND. 25 1 

home to the sign of the " Little Midshipman " that 
she began to show any talent in that direction. 
She took the reins from clumsy old Captain Cuttle, 
and almost imperceptibly the home of the old instru- 
ment-maker took on a more ship-shape expression. 
It was only a dainty touch here and there, but it 
worked wonders, and Florence was being trained 
in the right sort of school to become the wife of 
a poor man. 

" David Copperfield " bristles with housekeepers, 
young and old. First of all there is Mrs. Gum- 
midge, that " lone, lorn critter " who lived in the 
Peggottys' house-boat, and wept quarts of tears 
over her excellent cooking, and kept the living- 
room clean and tidy; but Little Eni'ly was the 
spirit of that simple home, and, when all is told, it 
is the spirit of the thing one has to do which counts 
for most. 

And so with the housekeeping Dickens describes. 
What makes it so attractive is the spirit of it; food 
tastes better if seasoned with good humor, and the 
little housekeepers he wrote about invariably 
brought smiles to their tasks. Dora danced 
through her few domestic duties. She did not 
accomplish much beyond the fascinating jingling 
of her keys, but her sunny temper sweetened even 
the failures, and David smiled indulgently at his 
child-wife. 

Agnes was the good genius of home. ' Every- 
thing she touched shone with a quiet radiance — 



252 CHARLES DICKENS. 

everything breathed of her serene presence. Her 
keys were magic ones, and all who came within 
her spell partook of the generous warmth she man- 
aged to shed around her. 

Three years intervened between the publication 
of " David Copperfield " and " Bleak House," Dick- 
ens's next important story; three busy years which 
saw the beginning of Household Words, his new 
venture in the editorial line, for he was editor-in- 
chief, and kept the post in spite of interruptions, 
for several years, contributing much material in 
weekly writing. '' The Child's History of Eng- 
land," written for his children, was also published 
in this interval, and last, but not least, his seventh 
son and tenth child, Edward Bulwer-Lytton Dick- 
ens, was born, March 13, 1852. 

There was another important change in his life, 
and that was his removal from Devonshire Ter- 
race, and the purchase of Tavistock House, a much 
larger and more stately home. 

'' Bleak House " first appeared number by num- 
ber, its usual form, and was read with the deepest 
interest by the public, for it was the tale of a suit 
in Chancery, involving a vast fortune which was 
swallowed up by the law, under the guise of Equity. 
The chief attraction which *' Bleak House " would 
naturally possess for any girl reader would be the 
very youthful element running through the story, 
the very delightful home center which Bleak House 
became, and, above all, the dear little housekeeper 



LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS IN DICKENS-LAND. 253 

with her basket of jingling keys, who flitted through 
the quaint old-fashioned place. " Dear Dame 
Durden " her Guardian called her, though her real 
name was Esther Summerson, and on the happy 
morning of her arrival at Bleak House she received 
the household keys in the inevitable little basket, 
and became the gentle, ministering spirit in the 
rambling, irregular, delightful Bleak House, of 
which Mr. Jarndyce (a descendant of the famous 
Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce) was the genial elderly 
master. 

This dear old bachelor's seclusion was invaded 
by three young people all at once. They were Ada 
Clare and Richard Carstone, wards in Chancery, 
and Esther came as a companion to the pretty Ada. 
Of this interesting trio, Mr. Jarndyce was the 
chosen Guardian, and it was he who sent the keys 
by a maid to Miss Sunimerson. There were two 
bunches all labeled. 

" * For you, miss,' said the maid. 

" * For me?' said I [Esther writes this in nar- 
rative form]. 

" ' The housekeeping keys, miss.' 

" I showed my surprise, for she added with some 
little surprise on her own part : * I was told to bring 
them to you as soon as you was alone. Miss — Miss 
Summerson, if I don't deceive myself.' 

" * Yes,' said I, ' that is my name.' 

" * The large bunch is the housekeeping, and the 
little bunch is the cellars, miss. Any time you was 



254 CHARLES DICKENS. 

pleased to appoint to-morrow morning, I was to 
show you the presses and things they belong 
to.' 

'* I said I would be ready at half past six; and, 
after she was gone, stood looking at the basket, 
quite lost in the magnitude of my trust. Ada found 
me thus, and had such a delightful confidence in 
me when I showed her the keys and told her about 
them that it would have been insensibility and in- 
gratitude not to feel encouraged." 

So Dame Burden took over the pleasant respon- 
sibilities of housekeeping in a home where every- 
thing was arranged in the most agreeable manner. 

The two girls had charming bedrooms, with a 
cozy sitting-room between, furnished in green, 
while upon the walls, framed and glazed, were 
'^ numbers of surprising and surprised birds, staring 
out of pictures at a real trout in a case, as brown 
and shining as if it had been served with gravy. 

. . In my room there were oval engravings 
of the months;. ladies haymaking in short waists, 
and large hats tied under the chin, for June ; smooth- 
legged noblemen pointing — with cocked hats — to 
village steeples, for October." Altogether a quaint, 
old-fashioned and charming room, as quaint and 
charming as the master of the house, who gave 
himself a terrible, ferocious character, called his 
cheerful, home-like den, " the Growlery," and bade 
them all to beware of his temper, especially when 
the wind blew east, showing how he laughed in his 



LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS IN DICKENS-LAND. 255 

sleeve at those people who are always making the 
weather and the winds an excuse for their bad 
tempers. 

Did ever poor lonely girl find such a haven as 
Esther Summerson found in Bleak House! And, 
with the exception of the Cheeryble Brothers, was 
there ever such a lovable man as Esther's Guardian, 
and was it any wonder that the girl bloomed into 
a beautiful young woman. Oh! how the keys jin- 
gled as Dame Burden went demurely about her 
work, and how often the fine old Guardian would 
steal out of the " Growlery " to watch her as she 
passed. 

It is a sweet story of home — this " Bleak 
House/' and the evil doings of Chancery Court 
seem very far away from the peaceful seclusion 
of the quaint mansion. Here Esther lived con- 
tented year after year, while the tangled meshes 
of the intricate plot drew her at last into the shadow 
— but only for a while, for she emerged into the 
light again, a proud and happy woman. 

In " Bleak House " we have many glimpses of 
home life, not always so charming as the life at 
Mr. Jarndyce's, but interesting because of the con- 
trast and the unspoken sermons that haunted the 
four walls. 

Take the Jellybys for instance, where Esther and 
Ada Clare stopped during the Court session, before 
they went to Bleak House. Mrs. Jellyhy was a 
great philanthropist, and all her thoughts v/ere cen- 



256 CHARLES DICKENS. 

tered on the Africans and how to help them, and all 
her time was taken up in corresponding with public 
bodies and private individuals, while the Jellyhy 
household went to rack and ruin. 

When the two young ladies first entered this 
beautiful home, they were ushered into the room, 
Esther tells us — " which was strewn with papers 
and nearly filled by a great writing-table covered 
with similar litter . . . not only very untidy, 
but very dirty. . . ." 

What principally struck them was the jaded- 
looking, tired girl " who sat at the writing-table, 
biting the feather of her pen and staring at us. I 
suppose nobody was ever in such a state of ink. 
And from her tumbled hair to her pretty feet — 
which were disfigured with frayed and broken satin 
slippers, trodden down at heel — she really seemed 
to have no article of dress upon her from a pin up- 
wards that was in its proper condition or its right 
place." 

Mrs. Jellyhy's housekeeping was certainly a trial 
to the flesh, and poor Caddy, the tired daughter, 
was really too tired to lend a hand or care. She 
was a nice girl, but she was wearied with writing 
letters for her mother about clothing and housing 
the Africans, when their own clothes were in tatters, 
and their own house not fit to live in. Caddy felt 
these things as she glanced at the fresh, dainty- 
looking girls, and wondered why they came there* 
When the two guests were shown to their rooms, 



LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS IN DICKENS-LAND. 257 

they found them bare and disorderly. Caddy 
escorted them. 

** ' You would like some hot water, wouldn't 
you?' said Miss Jellyby, looking round for a jug 
with a handle to it, but looking in vain." 

But there was no hot water and nothing to put 
it in, and it was altogether cold and cheerless and 
wretched. There was a whole troop of little Jelly- 
hys, '' and our attention was distracted by the con- 
stant apparition of noses and fingers in situations 
of danger between the hinges of the doors. It was 
impossible to shut the door of either room ; for my 
lock, with no knob to it, looked as if it wanted to 
be wound up, and though the handle of Ada's went 
round and round with the greatest smoothness, it 
was attended with no effect whatever on the door. 
Therefore, I proposed to the children that they 
should come in and be very good at my table, and 
I would tell them the story of ' Little Red Riding 
Hood ' while I dressed." 

Downstairs they went again to the discomfort of 
a smoking fire, but Mrs. Jellyhy only shrugged her 
shoulders, smiled good-naturedly, and went on 
writing letters about Africa, while her guests choked 
and coughed in the room beyond. 

Richard Car stone, who was also one of the Jarn- 
dyce wards, had a room upstairs, and his experi- 
ence was rather amusing; he had washed his hands 
in a pie-dish, and the missing kettle had been found 
on his dressing-table. 



258 CHARLES DICKENS. 

They went downstairs to dinner very carefully, 
for the stair carpets were so torn that they were 
dangerous. The dinner — Esther tells us — would 
have been excellent had it been well cooked, but 
it was almost raw, and it was rather discouraging 
to find a missing dish of potatoes tucked away in 
the coal scuttle. 

All the little Jellybys took to the newcomers. 
Peepy, the baby, would not leave Esther's lap ; poor 
little fellow, she probably gave him his very first 
" mothering," as Mrs. Jellyby was too much inter- 
ested in the welfare of the little Africans to have 
time for anything else; if Peepy had been a little 
African, he would have fared better. 

Esther and Ada gathered the children around 
them after dinner, and while Mrs. Jellyby went on 
writing letters, the girls whispered the story of 
Puss-in-Boots to the youngsters in the corner. 
Esther carried Peepy upstairs to bed, while the 
slovenly servant " charged into the midst of the 
little family, like a dragon, and turned them into 
cribs," and when the tired girls sought their own 
beds at midnight, they left Mrs. Jellyby "among 
her papers, drinking coffee, and Miss Jellyby biting 
the feather of her pen." 

Dickens was a wonderful artist, and, though he 
rarely painted a landscape, his interiors were always 
exceptionally good, and this picture of bad house- 
keeping was surely enough to make one shudder. 
He often showed us poor housekeeping, where the 



LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS IN DICKENS-LAND. 259 

small housekeeper made the most of her meager 
surroundings, but Mrs. Jellyhy, or more properly 
poor Caddy, could have made a happy home for 
the little Jellyhys, if her wishes had been granted 
and Africa had been blotted from the map. 

There was another little housekeeper in this same 
book; her name was Charlotte Neck eft, familiarly 
known as Charley, and she lived up " three-pair 
back " in a room that hugged the roof, and she 
was only thirteen — and she went out washing by 
the day — and she took care of a tiny brother and 
sister, for they were orphans. 

The room was poor and bare, and the food was 
often scarce, but Charley had just that knack which 
Dickens loved so in his girls; her capable hands 
were never idle, and there was an air of home even 
in the poor garret, with its one chair and its big 
uncomfortable bed. And how she cared for the 
two children! It was beautiful to see her, for 
Dickens made these poor little hard-working girls 
of flesh and blood, and beside them his other girls 
looked like shadowy little creatures. 

But we must not forget that, in writing of girls, 
Dickens had only a few types from which to choose. 
With him, it was either the good little angel — too 
good almost — or the little slavey, or the pretty, 
plump, middle-class little maid, who happened to 
have a perfect genius for housekeeping. The little 
narrow-chested girls of his period had no tennis to 
broaden them, no rowing, no basket-ball, no golf. 



26o CHARLES DICKENS. 

They were simply little home bodies, whose mission 
it was to make happiness, to find a suitable mate, 
to marry, and to have a family. 

In rapid succession throughout his other books 
Dickens has introduced us to innumerable girls, 
whose charm has endured all these years — even to 
this day, when the athletic, vigorous, brainy young 
girl puts the quiet home-mouse to shame. There 
is an atmosphere of sweet lavender about these little 
heroines of long ago, while the jingle of their key- 
basket is a sound we like to hear. 

In 1854 " Hard Times " was published in weekly 
installments in Household Words. It was a very 
grave and serious story, a tragedy of the poor, 
whose cause Dickens always championed. In 
Louisa Gradgrind and Sissy Jiipe we have a curious 
contrast of little girlhood; the one brought up on 
Facts, the other living in the glare of a traveling 
" two-penny " circus. No housekeeping keys jin- 
gled in the little baskets of either, for Sissy had no 
home, and Louisa lived only behind four walls, 
where everything was classified, and where the least 
human emotion had a pin stuck through it and was 
popped into a cabinet. 

Sissy, on the other hand, lived on her little emo- 
tions ; true — her father was only a clown, but he 
was very good to the little girl, and, though she 
never saw him after he disappeared from Coketown, 
he was always in her memory. She it was who en- 
tered the Gradgrind's home, where hard facts were 



LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS IN DICKENS-LAND. 261 

the only emotions, and the beating of her warm 
little heart was heard through the stone walls. Her 
real name was Cecilia Jitpe; her friends called her 
^'^3; and Mr. Gradgrind always said Jupe, as he 
considered Sissy no name at all, and Cecilia too 
high-sounding and sentimental. But somehow or 
other the sweet presence of this little girl was the 
only light in this sorrowful story. She became in 
truth the capable housekeeper of the Gradgrind 
establishment — the only hearty and wholesome 
creature within it. 

'' Hard Times " was short, but it was powerful 
enough to be a masterpiece. Dickens wrote it 
from his heart, and it reached thousands of readers 
through Household Words. 

Our next little housekeeper grew up in the shadow 
of a prison wall, the old Marshalsea prison, which 
Dickens had cause to know so well. " Little Dor- 
rit " was the title of his next book, and the name 
by which his charming heroine was known among 
her friends and within the prison itself, where she 
was born. 

A poor house to keep was this bare debtor's 
prison, where her father had dwelt for three and 
twenty years, but it was the only home Little Dorrif 
had ever known, and she managed to bring a bit of 
her own quiet sunshine into the dingy rooms. 
Everything that love and sacrifice could do was done 
for the broken old man, her father, and when sud- 
den, unexpected wealth unlocked their prison doors, 
18 



262 CHARLES DICKENS. 

she was always the same quiet, helpful, home child, 
always hovering near her father, sparing him when 
she could, creating around him the atmosphere of 
home wherever they went. 

A quiet, uneventful life would have been the 
portion of Amy Dorrit if she had not lived in a 
Story — but, being in a Story, and one of Dickens's 
stories, she had to be mixed up in a Plot, though 
her own faithful heart throbbed just the same be- 
hind the walls of the Marshalsea, or in the gilded 
elegance of the foreign hotels where Fanny Dorrit, 
the elder sister, always liked to settle. 

Arthur Clennam, the middle-aged hero — and 
very old for his age he was, too — was a man who 
all his life had hungered for love. He was a young 
man still, as years count — what are forty years to 
vigorous manhood — but life had been grave for 
him; he had not lived in prison, it is true, but for 
darkness and dreariness the Clennam mansion might 
have come close to the Marshalsea, and that he and 
Little Dorrit, of all people, should have come 
together, seemed a most wonderful and unheard-of 
thing; but then Dickens was a wizard, and wizards 
can do remarkable things, and Little Dorrit being 
made to love and console, and a born housekeeper 
into the bargain, why, what more natural than this 
pretty love story of the Marshalsea. 

There is another girl in " Little Dorrit " who in- 
terests us keenly ; a turbulent, fly-away bit of passion, 
resentful of the fact that she was only a foundling. 



LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS IN DICKENS-LAND. 263 

This was Tattycoram, the little maid in the Meagles 
family, and, as dear old Mr. Meagles explained, she 
came by her name in the Foundling Institution, in 
a most peculiar way. On entering, she was listed 
as Harriet Beadle. The Meagleses called her Hatty 
at first, and then Tatty, " because, as practical peo- 
ple, we thought even a playful name might be a new 
thing to her, and might have a softening and affec- 
tionate kind of effect, don't you see. . . . The 
name of Beadle being out of the question, and the 
originator of the Institution for these poor found- 
lings having been a blessed creature of the name 
of Coram, we gave that name to Pet's little maid. 
At one time she was Tatty, at one time she was 
Coram, until we got into a way of mixing the two 
names together, and now she is always Tattycoram." 

Pet Meagles — Christian name Minnie — is still 
another dainty bit of girlhood, but she is shadowy 
and somewhat unnatural compared with Tattycoram. 
One cannot imagine the household keys jingling 
in Pefs small basket, while Tattycoram, in spite 
of her black moods, was a capable, neat-handed little 
maid, and we may be quite sure that when she 
returned, penitent, to the Meagles's home, she be- 
came the most dutiful and conscientious of house- 
keepers. When she went with Mr. and Mrs. Mea- 
gles to see Little Dorrit, Mr. Meagles said gently: 

" * Tattycoram, come to me a moment, my good 
girl.' 

" She went up to the window. 



264 CHARLES DICKENS. 

" * You see that young lady who was here just 
now — that little quiet, fragile figure passing along 
there, Tatty? Look! the people stand out of the 
way to let her go by. The men — see the poor 
shabby fellows pull off their hats to her, quite po- 
litely, and now she glides in at that doorway. See 
her, Tattycoram ? ' 

" ' Yes, sir/ 

" ' I have heard tell, Tatty, that she was once 
regularly called the child of this place. She was 
born here, and lived here many years. A doleful 
place to be born and bred in, Tattycoram/ 

"'Yes, indeed, sir!' 

" * If she had constantly thought of herself, and 
settled with herself that everybody visited this place 
upon her, turned it against her, and cast it at her, 
she would have led an irritable and probably a use- 
less existence. Yet I have heard tell, Tattycoram, 
that her young life has been one of active resigna- 
tion, goodness and noble service. Shall I tell you 
what I consider those eyes of hers, that were here 
just now, to have always looked at to get real 
expression? ' 

*' * Yes, if you please, sir.' 

" * Duty, Tattycoram. Begin it early and do it 
well ; and there is no antecedent to it, in any origin 
or station, that will tell against us with the Almighty, 
or with ourselves.' " 

Which was just Dickens's way of using Tenny- 
son's poetic idea : 



LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS IN DICKENS-LAND. 265 

Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
And simple faith than Norman blood — 

and also Dickens's way of showing what a deeply 
sincere and religious man he was. 

"Little Dorrit," like all its predecessors, came 
out in installments (the usual twenty) with the 
usual forty illustrations by Hablot K. Browne 
(Phiz). It commenced in December, 1855, and 
was concluded in June, 1857, parts nineteen and 
twenty forming a double number; and, as usual, 
it stirred the public as only Dickens could stir 
them. 

Between '' Little Dorrit " and " A Tale of Two 
Cities " many changes came into the author's life. 
Household Words had sunk in the newly conceived 
periodical which was called All the Year Round, 
and " A Tale of Two Cities " came out in the 
magazine in feverish weekly installments, com- 
mencing with the birth of the magazine, April 30, 
1859, and ending November 26, of the same year. 
This is probably Dickens's very highest effort at 
story-telling, written, too, at a period which marked 
a serious turning-point in his life, a period when 
the mature and thoughtful man gave his whole 
heart to the work. 

We cannot tell if Lucie Manette was ever an 
accomplished little housekeeper. We only know 
that the people of those times were more busily 
engaged in keeping their heads than their houses, 



2.(^ CHARLES DICKENS. 

and even the jingling of an innocent basket of keys 
might have been regarded with suspicion. 

In i860 " Great Expectations " began in All the 
Year Round and continued in weekly installments. 
It was a queer, weird story, with certainly nothing 
to recommend it in the housekeeping line. But 
it was written at Gad's Hill, which he had recently 
purchased, and teems with vivid descriptions of the 
beautiful Kentish country. And Satis House, 
where Miss Havisham lived, was really a stately 
edifice in Rochester. That very rich, grim, and 
peculiar lady, who wore her bridal veil every night, 
and gazed with hollow eyes at her mouldy bride- 
cake, baked so many years ago, was the only house- 
holder of any distinction in the neighborhood, and 
her housekeeping was none of the best. 

It is strange that Dickens's fancy should have 
taken this weird flight ; the only thing true to nature 
was the small boy, Pip, the echo of himself, whose 
little vagabond feet wandered, as his had done long 
years ago, about the Kentish hills. There was 
more of the open in this story — more of the green 
growing things — more of the stars — though little 
enough of the sun. One does not look for a cheery 
hearth, a singing kettle, in the gloomy state Miss 
Havisham kept; and even Pip's sister, Joe's wife, 
was too much of a scold to make home happy. The 
only girls in the story are little Biddy and Estella, 
but there was nothing homelike or natural in their 
surroundings, and certainly not once through 



LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS IN DICKENS-LAND. 2i^y 

** Great Expectations " do we hear the jingle of the 
housekeeper's keys. 

But in " Our Mutual Friend," his last long novel, 
all this was changed. The author seemed to regain 
touches of his youth in the telling of this story — 
this wonderful, mysterious story, which time only 
mellows. To the girl just touching her teens, it is 
an absolutely thrilling story. The coiling and coil- 
ing of the intricate plot, the slow unfolding of the 
mystery, are of almost breathless interest, and Dick- 
ens has not forgotten to carry us to the homes of 
these people, and give us a seat at their tables or 
before their fires. And above all he has given us 
delicious glimpses of girls at their very sweet- 
est and best, and the jingle of the little house- 
keeper's keys can be distinctly heard throughout 
the tale. 

The daughter of a longshoreman is our first little 
housekeeper. Lizzie Hexam was her name, and 
her father, an evil-looking man named Jesse Hexam, 
earned his living by dragging the river for dead 
bodies and other wreckage, in consequence of 
which he was known as the bird of prey, and for 
many reasons was an important character. He 
lived with his two children, Charley and Lizzie, 
in a rotten, tumble-down house close to the water's 
edge. 

** The low building had the look of having once 
been a mill. There was a rotten wart of wood 
upon its forehead, that seemed to indicate where 



^68 CHARLES DICKENS. 

the sails had been, but the whole was very distinctly 
seen in the obscurity of the night." 

The door of this house opened into a circular 
room, and it was here that Lizzie — a lonely, loving, 
and very pretty girl, spent many hours of her life 
trying to make the old place homelike for her 
father and brother, trying to forget the dark, slug- 
gish river outside, and the gruesome things her 
father fished out of it, looking into the heart of 
the genial fire she managed to keep, and seeing 
wonderful pictures in the glow of its embers. She 
was always a mother to the boy, and in return he 
gave her the affection of a young cub, and her sweet 
and gracious presence in this dark, dilapidated house 
made a real home for the two she loved best in the 
world. 

Brought up in the shadow of ignorance and even 
sin, without a handful of knowledge to help her 
in the world, without knowing even how to read 
or write, Lizzie Hexam bloomed into a radiant crea- 
ture during the course of the story. 

In the midst of the family of R. Wilfer, Esquire, 
was a rosebud, and how it flourished among so 
many strange companions — who can tell ; but Miss 
Bella Wilfer was certainly a rose-bud, and the par- 
ent stem was certainly not a rose-bush. This 
charming young person, who had no home to speak 
of with respect until she married John Rokesrnith, 
became, in due course of time, one of the dearest 
and daintiest of housekeepers in the whole of 



LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS IN DICKENS-LAND. 269 

" Dickens-Land." The haven of bliss that she 
made for that lucky young man could scarcely be 
conceived, even though Dickens's pen painted the 
cheery place in glowing colors. Since the days of 
Mrs. Dot, he has never drawn a daintier picture, 
and the fact that Mrs. Bella is an important per- 
sonage, indeed, a most important personage, only 
adds to the pleasing sketch. 

To say too much of this charming Mrs. Roke- 
smith would be to tell the story, and this is one 
story which only Dickens can tell ; the barest outline 
would disfigure some part of the plot, so we can 
only say '' hands off " to the clumsy folk who would 
try to describe it. Let the girls read it for them- 
selves, it is well worth the trouble, only don't try 
to guess the mystery — you won't find out — and 
don't look at the end — it will spoil everything, 
believe me. 

And now for the best and dearest and last of 
the little housekeepers — Miss Jenny Wren, the 
doll's dressmaker. She, also, peeps from between 
the covers of " Our Mutual Friend," and she is 
chiefly remarkable for being the " mother " of a 
very troublesome '' child " — her own drunken, 
irresponsible father. 

Her real name was Fanny Cleaver, but, being 
small and misshapen, the name of Jenny Wren was 
far better suited to the bright eyes and sharp little 
young-old face that peeped out from a glorious mass 
of golden hair — her one beauty. 



270 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Her back was bad and her legs were queer, she 
explained to any visitor who chanced that way, but 
in all other respects she was a most capable and 
breezy young person. *' The person of the house," 
as she called herself, sat always in a low arm-chair 
with a sort of work-bench before it, and pursued 
her daily occupation as doll's dressmaker. 

" * I hope it's a good business,' " suggested a vis- 
itor. 

" The person of the house shrugged her shoulders 
and shook her head. * No, poorly paid. And I'm 
so often pressed for time. I had a doll married 
last week and was obliged to work all night. . . . 
And they take no care of their clothes, and they 
never keep to the same fashion a month. I work 
for a doll with three daughters. Bless you, she's 
enough to ruin her husband ! ' 

" The person of the house gave a weird little 
laugh here, and gave them another look out of the 
corners of her eyes. She had an elfin chin which 
was capable of great expression, and whenever she 
gave this look, she hitched this chin up. As if her 
eyes and her chin worked together on the same 
wires." 

She looked a mere child, yet the odd little crea- 
ture hated children, possibly because they made fun 
of her. 

" ^ Don't talk of children,' " cried the person of 
the house. " ' I can't bear children, / know their 
tricks and their manners. . . . 



LITTLE HOUSEKEEPERS IN DICKENS-LAND. 271 

'' ' Always running about and screeching, always 
playing and fighting, always skip, skip, skipping 
on the pavement and chalking it for their games. 
Oh ! / know their tricks and their manners. . . . 
And that's not all. Ever so often calling names 
in through a person's key-hole, and imitating a per- 
son's back and legs. Oh ! / know their tricks and 
their manners ! ' " 

And no doubt she did, poor child. 

" It was difficult to guess the age of this strange 
creature, for her poor figure furnished no clue to 
it and her face was at once so young and so old. 
Twelve or at the most, thirteen, might have been 
near the mark. 

" * I always did like grown-ups,' she went on, 
* and always kept company with them. So sen- 
sible. Sit so quiet. Don't go prancing and caper- 
ing about! And I mean always to keep among 
none but grown-ups till I marry. I suppose I must 
make up my mind to marry one of these days ! ' " 

Thus the person of the house — and she spoke 
words of wisdom in her shrill, sharp way, and she 
kept the house tidy, and earned money at her quaint 
little trade, sitting there day after day, among her 
dolls, chatting about them — thinking about them — 
and shaping her own life as her dexterous fingers 
fashioned the tiny work for her doll patrons. She 
hated strongly, she loved strongly, but duty was 
stronger than all else, and she cared for her drunken 
father, in her odd, motherly way, until a happy acci- 



2^2 CHARLES DICKENS. 

dent put an end to his worthless life, and then Mx^s 
Jenny Wren forgot what he had been, and mourned 
for what she would have liked him to be — like the 
true little woman that she was. 

Dickens has never given us a finer little character ; 
there is so much to say about it, but so much in 
connection with the story that it does not seem 
quite fair to tell it here, so we can only leave her 
with the keys in her capable hands, limping about 
and laying out a supper for her '* bad boy," or lis- 
tening for the light step of Lizzie Hexam, who 
became her dearest friend. 

And so, year by year, in his chivalrous, fatherly 
way, Dickens paid his tribute to girls. These small 
women had not yet learned to take their places in 
the world, as they have to-day, but Dickens probed 
deeper below the surface than most writers of his 
time, and the girls he gave to his readers were some- 
thing more than the colorless little beings who 
folded their hands and spoke when spoken to. 

Could he have seen our girls of to-day — with 
their sensible ideas, their healthy sports, their fear- 
less, straightforward glances, what wonders he 
could have accomplished in putting their portraits 
upon his canvas ! 



PART IV. 
THE MAN WHO MADE THE BOOKS. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

DICKENS, THE MANY-SIDED. 




O far we have tried to look upon Charles 
Dickens as the great author of his day, 
and we can grasp with certainty the fact 
that his books were his greatest monu- 
ment, because the man who can give his thoughts 
to the world and let them live after him has no 
need of anything more substantial in the way of a 
monument. But when we consider the many sides 
of this very remarkable man, we cannot help won- 
dering how — with such a limited span of life — he 
managed to accomplish what he did. 

" Our Mutual Friend " came out in the usual 
twenty monthly parts, commencing May, 1864, the 
final number issued in November, 1865; but some 
of it had a close call. In June, 1865, after a short 
holiday trip into France, Dickens was returning to 
London by train when a frightful accident occurred. 
The train ran off the rails, and Dickens was in the 
only carriage that was not overturned; it was 
caught in the bridge in some marvelous way, and 
he was of the few who escaped without injury. 
He was very active in the work of rescue, and went 
about bravely, without a thought for himself, until 

275 



276 CHARLES DICKENS. 

suddenly he remembered that he had left the man- 
uscript of a number of '' Our Mutual Friend " in 
the deserted carriage, out of which he had crawled 
and assisted two ladies who had shared his com- 
partment. Without hesitating for a moment, he 
clambered back and rescued some of his best char- 
acters from total destruction. He says in a '' post- 
script " which he wrote in place of a " preface " to 
this story: "I remember with devout thankfulness 
that I can never be much nearer parting company 
with my readers forever than I was then, until there 
shall be written against my life, the two words with 
which I have this day closed this book — The End." 

There is no doubt that Dickens's vigorous con- 
stitution received a shock from which it never recov- 
ered; it is equally certain that his heart beat most 
irregularly at times, and never afterwards was he 
able to travel on the railway without a certain 
nervous strain. 

We must not forget, however, in considering 
Charles Dickens as an author, that we have spoken 
particularly of his work as a novelist, putting far 
into the background the innumerable short stories 
and sketches which completely filled the intervals; 
for Dickens was renowned as a short story writer, 
many of his best being modestly tucked away in 
the unsigned columns of Household Words and 
All the Year Round. 

The first number of Household Words made its 
appearance on Saturday, March 30, 1850. Dick- 



DICKENS, THE MANY-SIDED. ^.'JJ 

ens was Editor-in-chief, and his friend, W. H. 
Wills, was sub-editor and manager. The new peri- 
odical was hailed with delight by its world of Eng- 
lish readers, though looking at the unpretentious 
bound volumes, we cannot help comparing them with 
the magazines of to-day, with their artistic illus- 
trations and attractive covers, and wondering 
wherein lay the charm, for we could not even trace 
the work of a favorite author, so securely was he 
hidden. It is only within recent years that Dick- 
ens himself has been traced through the columns, 
and in many cases the writings of other people have 
been laid at his door, because, in editing their con- 
tributions, he very often inserted paragraphs of his 
own, which, while improving the author's style im- 
mensely, seemed, nevertheless, to have Dickens's 
stamp, and later were actually reprinted with his 
name. 

The magazine was a great success — great enough 
to satisfy even Dickens's ambition. And it showed 
his wonderful powers as an editor, for no smallest 
detail was neglected by him. Even though the 
magazine ran side by side with some of his most 
notable novels, he always had time to attend faith- 
fully to his office work. Indeed, no one could work 
as hard or play as hard as Charles Dickens. Every- 
thing he did was thoroughly done, and when the 
magazine changed its name to All the Year Round, 
the same active care and interest marked its career. 
The trouble was, he was constantly doing; his brain 
19 



2y'^ CHARLES DICKENS. 

ran a race with his restless, active body, a mark of 
genius which must have been very trying to those 
around him. 

Dickens's love for the stage was well-known, and 
that he was an actor of more than usual merit we 
have seen in studying his life. There has been 
neither time nor space to write at length on this 
most important side of his character; we only know 
that, whenever there was an opportunity to act, 
Dickens acted. Many have wondered if a great 
actor was not overshadowed by a great writer, and 
the fact that he often delivered prologues before 
the curtain, for his friend Macready, shows that 
that renowned actor certainly considered him quite 
above the average. 

Indefatigable he was, too, as a stage manager; 
patient, good-humored, untiring, and at all times a 
gentleman ; '' he exerted his authority firmly and 
perpetually, but in such a manner as to make it 
universally felt to be for no purpose of self-asser- 
tion or self-importance; on the contrary — ^ to be 
for the sole purpose of insuring general success to 
their united efforts." 

As an actor his line was comedy, and the part 
of Captain Bohadil, the braggart in " Every Man 
in his Humour," was remarkable for its finished 
work. 

" Every Man in his Humour " was given for a 
Shakespeare benefit, and in the cast were three of 
the Dickens brothers, Frederick, Charles, and 



DICKENS, THE MANY-SIDED. 279 

Augustus (the original " Boz " we remember), and 
several of Dickens's most intimate friends, Mark 
Lemon, John Forster, John Leech, and George 
Cruikshank. This play was followed by a farce, 
" Love, Law, and Physic," in which Charles and 
Frederick also took part. 

There was one special performance of " Every 
Man in his Humour " given at Knebworth Park, 
Lord Lytton's family mansion, in which Mrs. 
Charles Dickens was to have played, had she not 
been disabled by an accident, when Mrs. Mark 
Lemon kindly took her place. The Epilogue on 
this occasion makes humorous reference to all the 
players. Here is a part: 

Amongst the party there are pretty pickin's ! 
But say, can newspaper describe Charles Dickens ? 
Author and actor; manager; the soul 
Of all who read or hear him ! on the whole 
A very Household Word. 

Reference is then made to the accident which 
prevented the appearance of Mrs. Dickens. 

Wellhred. Now how about the ladies? 
Knowell. For my part 

Fve got their perfection all by heart. 
Wellhred. Hush, what would Dickens say to such sweet 

word? 
Knowell. Why, that the lady emulates her lord. 

A word on her sad accident ; but quite 

Impromptu, not intended for to-night. 

Oh, may she soon recover from her sprain, 



28o CHARLES DICKENS. 

To tread with us, her friends, these boards 
again. 
Weltbred. That fall sank all our spirits ; but in need 

'Tis said a friend is found, a friend indeed ! 

Successful friendship has our cares allayed. 
'Knowell. Ay, and the case relieved by Lemon-aid. 

When Dickens belonged to the Guild of Dramatic 
Literature and Art, he acted many times, and in the 
adaptation of his own story, '' Mr. Nightingale's 
Diary," he was specially delightful as Mr. Gabble- 
zvig, the over-talkative barrister. He was fond of 
doing some of his better known characters, and 
Sam Weller and Mrs. Gamp ("not the real Mrs. 
Gamp but a near relation " ) were special favorites. 

He took a great interest in cultivating a dramatic 
spirit among his children, and there were many 
Twelfth Night celebrations at Tavistock House, in 
honor of the younger Charles's birthday. Indeed, 
the children's theatricals were given there each year 
*' until the principal actors ceased to be children." 

" Tom Thumb " was given in 1854, and " For- 
tunio " in 1855. Mark Lemon and Dickens him- 
self took prominent parts in both plays, while Mark 
Lemon's own clever children and Dickens's tribe 
of youngsters added their share to the fun. Dick- 
ens called his friend " The Infant Phenomenon " 
and himself " The Modern Garrick," and the enter- 
tainments on both occasions went with smoothness 
and spirit. At one of these performances the ballad 
of Miss Villikins, written by Dickens, was sung 



DICKENS, THE MANY-SIDED. 281 

with such effect that Thackeray, who was present, 
rolled off his seat in a burst of laughter. 

The play of " Fortunio " was advertised in the 
most absurd manner on a large lettered board. 
*' Re-engagement of that irresistible comedian, Mr. 
Ainger ! " '' Re-appearance of Mr. H., who created 
so powerful an impression last year ! " " Return 
of Mr. Charles Dickens, Jun. from his German en- 
gagements ! " " Engagement of Miss Kate, who 
declined the munificent offers of the Management 
last season!" "Mr. Passe, Mr. Mudperiod, Mr. 
Measly Servile, and Mr. Wilkini Collini ! " " First 
appearance, on any stage, of Mr. Plornish-marooti- 
goonter (who has been kept out of bed at a vast 
expense)." The last performer mentioned was yet 
some distance from the third year of his age. Dick- 
ens was Mr. Passe. 

In 1855, ''The Lighthouse" was also produced 
at Tavistock House. Wilkie Collins wrote the 
play, and Stanfield, the artist, painted the drop- 
scene, which was " an exquisite picture of Eddystone 
as it stood in those days . . . and the actors 
were exhibited throughout as shut up in a little room 
within the lighthouse, also of Mr. Stanfield's paint- 
ing, which from its nature could with the best pos- 
sible effect be set up in a private drawing-room, or 
on a miniature stage." 

The principal character, an old lighthouse man, 
was played wonderfully by Dickens, in a most pic- 
turesque manner, arousing great enthusiasm. 



282 CHARLES DICKENS. 

A year later, " The Frozen Deep," also by Wilkie 
Collins, was produced at Tavistock House, and in 
preparation for this very ambitious piece the house 
v^as literally turned upside-down. The schoolroom 
was transformed into a theater; it took quite three 
months to accomplish this; to lay the pipes for 
proper lighting, to paint appropriate scenery, and 
to train the children. 

In the meantime, as he wrote to his friend Mac- 
ready, on December 13, 1856: "You may faintly 
imagine, my venerable friend, the occupation of 
these also grey hairs, between * Golden Marys,' 
' Little Dorrits/ * Household Wordses,' four stage 
carpenters entirely boarding on the premises, a car- 
penter's shop erected in the back garden, size ( a sort 
of wash) always boiling over on all the lower fires, 
Stanfield perpetually elevated on planks, and splash- 
ing himself from head to foot, Telbin requiring 
impossibilities of smart gasmen, and a legion of 
prowling nondescripts forever shrinking in and out. 
Calm amidst the wreck, your aged friend glides 
away on the ^ Dorrit ' stream, forgetting the uproar 
for a stretch of hours, refreshing himself with a 
ten or twelve mile walk, pitches head foremost into 
foaming rehearsals, placidly emerges for editorial 
purposes, smokes over buckets of distemper with 
Mr. Stanfield aforesaid, again calmly floats upon 
the * Dorrit ' waters." 

So we see, in spite of the noise and confusion, 
with " a painter's shop in the schoolroom ; a gas- 



DICKENS, THE MANY-SIDED. 283 

fitter's shop all over the basement; a dressmaker's 
shop at the top of the house; a tailor's shop in my 
dressing-room "— still ''Little Dorrit " went on 
undisturbed, in order that the public might receive 
the usual monthly number, and everything that could 
be done to make the new play a success was done 
without a thought of trouble or inconvenience. 

Special invitations were issued to their friends, 
but the house — roomy as it was — was not big 
enough to hold the ninety-three people at first in- 
vited, and so the play had to be repeated several 
times, in order that all might enjoy it. 

" The Frozen Deep " was a true success, though 
only amateurs took part. Wilkie Collins says of it : 

" Mr. Dickens himself played the principal part, 
and played it with a truth, vigour, and pathos, never 
to be forgotten by those who were fortunate enough 
to witness the performance." 

We might go on throughout this chapter and 
through many more, giving interesting accounts of 
Dickens's theatrical experiences. It all goes to 
prove that his knowledge of drama and the stage 
showed its influence in his various novels, for all — 
without exception — were written in a dramatic 
style, and most of them were afterwards arranged 
as plays, though not always in a way to please the 
author. 

The first dramatic arrangement was a three-act 
version of '' Pickwick," entitled " Sam Weller, or 
the Pickwickians." The perpetrator of this direful 



284 CHARLES DICKENS. 

deed was William Moncrieff, a well-known the- 
atrical tinker, and the play was produced at the 
Theater Royal, on July 10, 1837. Poor Dickens! 
He could only tear his hair and rave in the news- 
papers, but there was no legal way in which to stop 
the man, who openly acknowledged that he had not 
only appropriated the author's idea, but had tam- 
pered with it in such a way that Dickens did not 
know his own child. While, as to " Sam Weller," 
the playwright openly considered it " a character, 
by the by, which I should think was only an after- 
conception of its creator, and formed no part of 
his original projection." In other words, that Sam 
Weller, as we know him and delight in him, got 
into the book quite by accident, and that Dickens 
had nothing to do with him. 

The adaptation was thoroughly ridiculous, espe- 
cially the ending, which represented the accession 
of Queen Victoria, where the Populace in holiday 
clothes " listen to some dialogue between Mr. Pick- 
wick and Sam; and then join all the characters in 
a loyal chorus to the air of Auber's * God Save the 
King, Gustavus,' during the singing of which, a 
^Procession of Heralds, Beef-eaters, Guards, etc., 
are seen passing through Temple Bar to proclaim 
the Accession of Her Majesty Queen Victoria, and 
the piece concluded amidst general shouts of joy 
and congratidations, with tableau!'" 

Think of our dear old, unobtrusive, inoffensive 
"Pickwick," with such an ending! 



DICKENS, THE MANY-SIDED. 285 

This did not deter Moncrieff from dramatizing 
*' Nicholas Nickleby " before it was completed, but 
here Dickens revenged himself by introducing the 
character of " the literary gentleman " in the fare- 
well supper given to Mr. Vincent Crummies^ and 
giving Moncrieff some hard slaps. 

Mr. Edward Stirling, another " adaptor," fared 
better with " Nicholas Nickleby." This play was 
produced at the Adelphi Theater, on November 19, 
1838, and lasted for one hundred and sixty nights. 
Dickens had been able to sit through this perform- 
ance, and to enjoy some parts of it. There was 
another excellent adaptation in 1875, and in 1885 
a " sketch " was given, in which a talented Amer- 
ican actor, Mr. John S. Clarke, gave a wonderful 
impersonation of Newman Noggs. Mr. Stirling, 
in his interesting book, " Old Drury Lane," gives a 
humorous account of one performance of his ver- 
sion, at Worthing: 

" For my benefit," he tells us, " ' Nicholas Nick- 
leby ' was announced. Without the * Dotheboys 
Hall ' scholars, this performance could not, however, 
take place. And here was the awkward dilemma. 
Worthing mothers of the poorer class did not coun- 
tenance play-acting, believing Old Nick to be in 
some way connected with it. 

" There happened to be in this village an old bar- 
ber, who did many things besides shaving, for a 
living; among his accomplishments he was a per- 
former on the French Horn, and had very much 



286 CHARLES DICKENS. 

the same influence over the children as did the Pied 
Piper of Hamlin. The manager of the company 
explained his need of children for that one scene. 
The barber said: ; 

" ' I'll get you fifty, sir, never fear/ 

'' And he was as good as his word. Lured from 
the by-streets and alleys by his horn . . . the 
small fry followed him to the theater yard; once 
there the gates were closed upon Mr. Sqiieers's chil- 
dren. Amidst crying and moaning, they were 
placed on the stage, sitting on benches . . . 
poor children, completely bewildered. When the 
treacle was administered, most of them cried. This 
delighted the audience, thinking it so natural (so it 
was). At nine o'clock, the act over, our cruel bar- 
ber threw open the gates, driving his flock out with 
a pleasant intimation of what they would catch 
when they arrived home. Mothers, fathers, sisters, 
in wild disorder had been scouring the town for 
their runaways, and the police were completely puz- 
zled and at their wits' ends, at such a wholesale 
kidnapping." 

" Pickwick " was never a success as a play, but 
the Jingle of Henry Irving will always be remem- 
bered. The only pity was that Dickens could not 
have seen this splendid piece of acting. 

There was a dramatization of " The Old Curi- 
osity Shop " at the Adelphi in the early days, when 
Yates played Quilp, and Mrs. Keeley was the Little 
Nell. This has always been a favorite subject, and 



DICKENS, THE MANY-SIDED. 287 

there were some excellent versions of it in later 
years. A great pitfall to many ambitious actresses 
was the attempt to play both the Marchioness and 
Little Nell; " the result has always been disastrous 
to one or the other of the two characters, and some- 
times to both. Poor Nell, however, has generally 
been the greater sufferer." 

" Martin Chuzzlewit " has also been '' adapted," 
and the funny thing about this is — that Sairey 
Gamp and Betsey Prig have always been star parts 
for men. 

Mr. Stirling dramatized the " Carol " with Dick- 
ens's consent. He tells us: 

" Dickens attended several rehearsals, furnishing 
valuable suggestions. Thinking to make Tiny Tint 
(a pretty child) more effective, I ordered a set of 
irons and bandages for his supposed weak leg. 
When Dickens saw this tried on the child, he took 
me aside : 

" * No, Stirling, no, this won't do ! remember how 
painful it would be to many of the audience having 
crippled children.' " 

In 1846, " The Cricket on the Hearth " was pro- 
duced at the Lyceum, and an English critic says 
of it: 

" That the Cricket might be served up quite warm 
to the play-going public, Mr. Charles Dickens sup- 
plied the dramatist, Mr. Albert Smith, with proof- 
sheets, hot from the press. On the evening of the 
morning, therefore, on which the book was pub- 



^88 CHARLES DICKENS. 

lished, its dramatic version was produced; and as 
the Adaptor stuck very closely indeed to the text of 
the original, of course it succeeded." 

Dickens's characters were all so natural that they 
lived of themselves without any help from other 
people, and lived, too, when dramatists and actors 
had done their worst, and those who tried to set 
his compositions to rights have done little or no 
harm; but the wise person who stuck to the text, 
remembering that Dickens was a master, was sure 
of success; and the result was that in this notable 
performance, which charms us even to-day, the 
actors were lost in the characters which seemed to 
have walked out of the book, throbbing with the 
life the author put into them. 

*' Oliver Twist " has been " adapted " many times, 
but the first version was enough to try the patience 
of a saint; the ending was enough to rouse the ire 
of a meeker man than Charles Dickens. 

" Mr. Brozvnlow. And what is now wanted to complete the 
happiness of Oliver Twist? 

*' OliveVo First that you will erect a small white 

tablet in the church near which my poor 
mother died, and on it grave the name of 
Agnes. There might be no coffin in that 
tomb; but if the spirits of the dead ever 
come back to earth to visit spots hal- 
lowed by their love, I do believe that the 
shade of my poor mother will often 
hover about this solemn nook, though it 
is a church and she was weak and erring. 



DICKENS, THE MANY-SIDED. 289 

" Mr. Brownlow. The next request I will make for you, 
dear Oliver, myself, and will make it here 
— to you (the audience). Our hero is 
but young; but if his simple progress has 
beguiled you of a smile, or his sorrows of 
a tear, forgive the errors of the orphan 
boy, Oliver Twist. (Tableau.)" 

Is it any wonder that at this representation of 
*' Oliver Twist" at the Surrey Theater, in 1838, 
"' Dickens is said to have laid himself down in a 
corner of the box, and to have risen only when the 
curtain had fallen." 

The French idea of " Nicholas Nickleby " was 
laughable; facts had to give way so often to the 
French idioms that the writer and his characters 
seem to disappear entirely. 

Mr. Pemberton says, in his book on Dickens and 
the Stage, that he once saw a stage version of 
'' Little Dorrit " " in which the Father of the Mar- 
shalsea inherits a title and is called Sir William 
Dorrit ; and an adaptation of ' Dombey and Son ' 
in which poor Paul is stolen by Mrs. Brown, and 
meets with his death while endeavoring to escape 
by way of the roof, from that good lady's house! " 

Mr. Halliday wrote a play founded on " Dombey 
and Son " and called it " Heart's Delight," Captain 
Cuttle's name for Florence; and an adaptation of 
''David Copperfield" called "Little Em'ly." 

We might give countless instances of dramati- 
zation, more or less successful, of Dickens's books, 



290 CHARLES DICKENS. 

but there have been only a few of sufficient merit 
to Hve side by side with the originals. The 
" Cricket," " The Chimes," and " The Carol," have 
good, enduring stuff in them. There is a very mod- 
ern version of " A Tale of Two Cities " called " The 
Only Way," which holds its own, and several 
actresses of note have created wonderful character 
studies out of Nancy Sikes, with the necessary 
background of " Oliver Twist." 

There have been Pickwicks and Jingles and Sam 
Wellers, and Mrs. Dots, and Little Nells and 
Marchionesses, and Florence Dombeys and Little 
Emilys and Dame Durdens, and Jenny Wrens, all 
having their turns upon the stage, but with one or 
two exceptions they have done nothing in the way 
of immortalizing Dickens's works. For the works 
of a master need no prop — they can stand alone. 

Some time in the sixties " A Christmas Carol " 
was played at the Adelphi, with the well-known 
actor, Toole, as Boh Cratchit, and in the Cratchif 
Christmas dinner scene, " a real roast goose and a 
real plum pudding were served hot every night. 
Tiny Tim was played by a somewhat emaciated 
little girl, who sat by the fireside and was fed with 
dainty morsels by the other little Cratchits, who 
clustered about the dinner-table, and who, needless 
to say, were as willing to play as good a knife and 
fork on the stage as they are supposed to do in the 
book. Of all the little Cratchits, however, this Tiny 
Tim was the most voracious. Like his famous 



DICKENS, THE MANY-SIDED. 291 

young relative, Oliver Twist, he always wanted 
'more,' and night after night such large portions 
of goose and plum pudding were handed to this 
exacting and hungry little invalid that even the good- 
natured Toole grew annoyed, feeling that the poetry 
of the scene was being missed, and at last became 
absolutely angry with the child for its supposed 
gluttony. Being at length taken to task on the 
subject, poor Tim made a confession. The child 
had a sister (a not too well-fed sister) employed in 
the theater. The fire by which it sat was a ' stage 
fire,' through which anything could be easily con- 
veyed to one waiting on the other side, and poor 
little Tim's goose and pudding were more than 
shared each night. When Toole told this story to 
Dickens, he was greatly touched, and said : ' I hope 
you gave the child the whole goose.' " 

Mr. Toole was a famous actor in the five im- 
portant Christmas Stories, a tribute he paid to the 
author, who was the first to give him real encour- 
agement in his work. 

But the stage and its attractions were only side- 
lights in Dickens's eventful life. His pen was never 
idle, and the real student might spend a year or 
more unearthing and reading his many literary 
efforts, which have simply not been handed down 
to fame because they are so numerous. 

" No Thoroughfare " is a particularly notable 
piece of work, because it was not only written jointly 
by Dickens and Wilkie Collins, but written in such 



292 CHARLES DICKENS. 

a way that it was almost impossible to separate 
the work of the two writers. 

A somewhat earlier story and a very well-known 
one is '' The Wreck of the Golden Mary " printed 
in the Christmas number of Household Words, 
1856. This story contains a beautiful " Child's 
Hymn "of five stanzas, written by Dickens, who 
did not often use his pen for serious verse. In the 
daily papers, and for special dinners and toasts, and 
once in a while in a prologue to some special play, 
Dickens indulged in rhyme — somewhat stilted and 
formal when serious — and when not in a serious 
vein his verses could be clever. 

In 1868, a charming story for young people, 
called " A Holiday Romance " appeared first in 
America, in four parts, in Our Young Folks, a Bos- 
ton publication edited by Ticknor and Fields, and 
afterwards was reprinted in All the Year Round. 
Dickens did not often write for children, but it 
may be interesting to know that Our Young Folks 
after a time left its Boston home and came to New 
York, where it changed its name to the St. Nicholas 
Magazine, by which it is known to-day. 

A very charming idea is this " Holiday Romance,'^ 
supposed to have been written by four children: 
William Tinkling, Esquire, aged eight ; Miss Alice 
Rainhird, aged seven; Lieutenant-Colonel Robin 
Red forth, aged nine ; and Miss Nettie Ashford, aged 
half-past-six, and the author has very cleverly 
brought out the character of each child. 



DICKENS, THE MANY-SIDED. 293 

William Tinkling shoulders the pen in Part First. 
He says: 

" The beginning part is not made out of anybody's 
head you know. It's real. You must believe this 
beginning part more than what comes after else 
you won't understand how what comes after came 
to be written. You must believe it all but you must 
believe this most — please. I am the editor of k. 
Bob Red forth (he's my cousin, and shaking the 
table on purpose) wanted to be the editor of it; but 
I said he shouldn't because he couldn't. He has no 
idea of being an editor. 

" Nettie Ash ford is my bride. We were married 
in the right-hand closet in the corner of the dancing 
school where first we met, with a ring (a green 
one) from Wilkingwater's toy shop. / owed for 
it out of my pocket money. When the rapturous 
ceremony was over we all four went up the lane 
and let off a cannon (brought loaded in Bob Red- 
forth's waistcoat pocket) to announce our nuptials. 
It flew right up when it went off, and turned over. 
Next day Lieutenant-Colonel Robin Red forth was 
united with similar ceremonies, to Alice Rainbird. 
This time the cannon burst with a most terrific ex- 
plosion and made a puppy bark." 

Miss Rainbird next takes up the romance. She 
says: 

" There was once a king and he had a queen ; 
and he was the manliest of his sex, and she was the 
loveliest of hers. The king was in his private pro- 
20 



294 CHARLES DICKENS. 

fession, under government. The queen's father had 
been a medical man out of town. 

*' They had nineteen children, and were always 
having more. Seventeen of these children took 
care of the baby; and Alicia, the oldest, took care 
of them all. Their ages varied from seven years 
to seven months. 

'^ Let us now resume our story." 

Lieutenant-Colonel Robin Redforth wrote in a 
nautical vein with a tinge of piracy. He begins 
thus: 

'' The subject of our present narrative would 
appear to have devoted himself to the pirate pro- 
fession at a comparatively early age. We find him 
in command of a splendid schooner of one hundred 
guns loaded to the muzzle, ere yet he had had a 
party in honor of his tenth birthday." 

His name was Boldheart — and he was given to 
singing nautical melodies like the following: 

Oh, landsmen are folly! 
Oh, pirates are jolly ! 
Oh, diddleum Dolly ! 
Di! 

Chorus — Heave yo! 

Miss Nettie Ashford is responsible for Part 
Four, beginning: 

^' There is a country which I will show you when 
I get into maps, where the children have everything 
their own way. It is a most delightful country to 



DICKENS, THE MANY-SIDED. 295 

live in. The grown-up people are obliged to obey 
the children, and are never allowed to sit up to sup- 
per except on their birthdays. The children order 
them to make jam, and jelly, and marmalade, and 
tarts, and pies, and puddings, and all manner of 
pastry. If they say they won't, they are put into 
the corner till they do. They are sometimes 
allowed to have some; but when they have some, 
they generally have powders given to them after- 
wards." 

We can certainly tell from the foregoing para- 
graphs exactly what sort of youngsters composed 
this quartette, and we can understand the fun Dick- 
ens had in writing this story. 

" George Silverman's Explanation " was also writ- 
ten for an American magazine. The Atlantic 
Monthly, and for these stories — neither of them 
of an unusual length — Dickens received one thou- 
sand pounds apiece! 

We might mention a long string of stories — 
"The Seven Poor Travelers," "The Haunted 
House," " Tom Tiddler's Ground," " Somebody's 
Luggage," " Mrs. Lirriper's Lodgings," " Mrs. 
Lirriper's Legacy," "Dr. Marigold's Prescrip- 
tions," " Mugby Junction," all of which appeared in 
All the Year Round, and we would find among these 
many clever and amusing things, for everything 
Dickens touched bore the unmistakable stamp of 
wholesome humor. 

There is yet another side to this remarkable man, 



296 CHARLES DICKENS. 

and that is his gift of oratory. It made of him a 
most convincing lecturer, and it opened still another 
channel for his talents. He became a public in- 
terpreter and reader of his own works, and under 
the management of Mr. George Dolby made most 
successful tours through Great Britain and America. 

Never before had such a scheme suggested it- 
self, and it proved to be as popular as it was origi- 
nal. Dickens's fine reading would have pleased an 
audience, regardless of the text; but when he read 
one of his own books and threw into the telling 
scenes all the emotion which had prompted the 
original writing, nothing could have been more in- 
spiring. There were selections from " Dombey," 
"Nickleby," "Pickwick,'' "Oliver Twist," "The 
Carol," "The Cricket," "The Chimes," "Dr. 
Marigold's Prescriptions," and many others. 

The period of these readings (1867-1868) cov- 
ered a period of declining health, and Mr. Dolby, 
who was his business manager as well as his per- 
sonal friend, had a great responsibility in arrang- 
ing his various appearances before the public. He 
was curiously afflicted, during his American tour, 
with loss of voice just before or just after the read- 
ing, but in some miraculous way it invariably re- 
turned when he had reached his desk, and faced 
his task and his audience. 

In America the rush to hear him was unprec- 
edented; people fought for tickets at any price, 
and the waiting line in front of the box-office was 



DICKENS, THE MANY-SIDED. 297 

half a mile long. Mr. Dolby's book is full of 
humorous recollections of this tour, of which the 
following anecdote is a fair sample: 

During the progress of a reading in Boston, 
Mr. Dolby was engaged in conversation with one 
of his staff at the foot of the stairs leading to the 
hall, when his attention was drawn to a gentleman 
coming down the stairs in a most excited state. 
" Imagining him to be ill and wanting assistance, 
I said, * What's the matter with youf From the 
accent of his reply I concluded that he was a 
' reg'lar down Easter.' * Say, who's that man on 
the platform reading? ' 

" ' Mr. Charles Dickens,' I replied. 

" ' But it ain't the real Charles Dickens, the man 
as wrote all them books I've been reading all these 
years.' 

" ' The same.' 

" After a moment's pause as if for thought, he 
replied : 

" ' Wall, all I've got to say about it, then, is, that 
he knows no more about Sam Weller'n a cow does 
of pleatin' a shirt. At all events, that ain't my 
idea of Sam Weller, anyhow.' 

" After the delivery of this speech, he clapped 
his hat on his head and left the building in a state 
of high dudgeon." 

Is it any wonder that Dickens could not long 
endure the strain to which he was constantly sub- 
jecting himself. He said of himself : " I have al- 



^98 CHARLES DICKENS. 

ways felt that I must, please God, die in harness." 
And it is good to think that he had his wish — 
that he did not outlive his usefulness and his ac- 
tivity. 

He only lived two years after his return from 
America, but they were two full years, in spite 
of much pain and many break-downs; for his 
dream had come true — the " little boy of Long 
Ago " had reached the summit of Gad's Hill, and 
all about him lay " the purple wonder, the crimson 
glory "of the sunset. 






CHAPTER XIV. 

DICKENS AND HIS FRIENDS. 

ROM his very earliest boyhood, the 
sunny nature and genial spirit drew 
around Dickens many friends. He 
was quick to know and to feel sympathy, 
and any kindness extended to him was certainly 
never forgotten. From the little playmates of 
those earlier days, to the associates of later years, 
one and all found him most attractive as a com- 
panion. His keen wit, even in childhood, made 
him a leader, and among the men and women of 
his time, it took its place and added to the luster 
of that brilliant circle. 

He came into the world alongside of Tennyson 
and Thackeray, the youngest of the trio. Walter 
Scott died when Dickens was twenty, but not be- 
fore his influence had been felt throughout the land. 
In the first half of the nineteenth century, the world 
of literature was illumined by flaming torches: 
Macaulay, Carlyle, Tennyson, Dickens, Thackeray, 
George Eliot, Bulwer-Lytton, the Brontes, The 
Brownings, Charles Reade, Leigh Hunt, Thomas 
Hood, and many lesser lights; so wherever genius 
burned in those early Victorian days there was sure 

299 



300 CHARLES DICKENS. 

to be another fire not far off. It was the day of 
eminent statesmen and eminent painters, great 
singers and great actors, of spirit and stir and ac- 
tion everywhere, and the birth of immortal verse 
and prose. It was a great time in which to be 
born, and Dickens showed his appreciation. 

With most of these writers in after days he 
came into personal contact, especially with Thack- 
eray, whose writing lay along the same lines; in- 
deed, there was a spirit of rivalry between them 
which was not always very friendly, but both men 
were too big, and in heart too kindly, to allow a 
serious breach. It is true that in many proved 
instances, Thackeray (being the later writer) with- 
out doubt founded some of his characters on those 
well-known Dickens's books, and at one time 
there was serious danger of a permanent split. 
Thackeray once said in a letter to one of his 
daughters: "There is not room for both of us in 
the same tree," but at the time of his death, 
Dickens's beautiful eulogy of his lost friend en- 
tirely wiped away the slightest bitterness. 

As a young man, Dickens cared more for the 
society of ladies, but after his very early marriage 
he drew around him a brilliant circle of young men, 
first among them being John Forster. It is a well- 
known saying that without knowing Forster, one 
could hardly know Dickens, and it is doubtful if the 
great Novelist would have attained half his great- 
ness or his power had not John Forster's calmer 



DICKENS AND HIS FRIENDS. 301 

judgment been ever at his elbow, advising, warn- 
ing, suggesting, always unselfishly where his friend 
was concerned, and truly proud of every step which 
Dickens took towards fame. 

Nothing was ever kept from Forster, and the 
number of horseback rides, and holiday jaunts, and 
family excursions, in which he had a share, showed 
how near he was to the very heart of Dickens's 
household. 

Dickens's temper, while genial, was hot and quick, 
but all through their years of intercourse there is 
no record of anything like a quarrel between these 
friends. They disagreed on many points, as the 
best of friends will, but their little differences were 
mere matters of opinion and food for argument, in 
which Forster especially delighted. 

Macready, the celebrated actor, was another 
long-tried friend. Dickens's love for the stage 
brought these two very close together. Indeed, 
both families were very intimate, and when Dickens 
and his wife paid their first visit to America the 
Macreadys took entire charge of their children. 

Daniel Maclise and Clarkson Stanfield also be- 
longed to the magic circle of close friends. Both 
were celebrated painters, the former a painter of 
portraits — the latter of large canvasses. Mac- 
lise's many portraits and sketches of Dickens him- 
self, are celebrated, the frontispiece of this volume 
being a copy of the famous one which hangs in the 
British National Gallery. 



302 CHARLES DICKENS. 

These select spirits were always going off on 
holiday jaunts, like a set of overgrown boys, and 
such fun they had — and such larks! One par- 
ticular journey into Cornwall, soon after his Ameri- 
can tour, is described by Dickens in a letter to his 
American friend, Professor Felton: 

" We all went down into Devonshire by the rail- 
road, and there we hired an open carriage from an 
inn-keeper, patriotic in all Pickwick matters, and 
went on with post-horses. Sometimes we travelled 
all night, sometimes all day, sometimes both. I 
kept the joint-stock purse, ordered all the dinners, 
paid all the turnpikes, conducted facetious conver- 
sations with the post-boys, and regulated the pace at 
which we travelled. Stanfield (an old sailor) con- 
sulted an enormous map on all disputed points of 
way- faring, and referred, moreover, to a pocket 
compass and other scientific instruments. The 
luggage was in Forster's department, and Maclise 
— having nothing particular to do — sang songs." 

The four were young and healthy, and enjoying 
themselves immensely like inconsequent schoolboys. 

"If you could have witnessed," continues Dick- 
ens, " the deep devotion of the post-boys, the 
wild attachment of the hostlers, the maniac glee of 
the waiters! If you could have followed us into 
the earthy old churches we visited, and into the 
strange caverns on the gloomy seashore, and down 
into the depths of the mines, and up to the tops of 
the giddy heights, where the unspeakably green 



DICKENS AND HIS FRIENDS. 303 

water was roaring — I don't know how many 
hundred feet below! ... I never laughed as 
I did on this journey; I was choking and gasping 
and bursting the buckle off the back of my stock all 
the way. And Stanfield got into such apoplectic 
entanglements that we were often obliged to beat 
him on the back with portmanteaus before we could 
recover him. Seriously I do believe there never 
was such a trip, and they made sketches, these two 
men (Maclise and Stanfield) in the most romantic 
of our halting-places, that you would have sworn 
we had the Spirit of Beauty with us, as well as the 
Spirit of Fun." 

These holidays always occurred either just before 
or just after writing a book when he wished for a 
mental rest. 

Another lifelong friend was Thomas Mitton, 
one of his fellow clerks in the early days of the 
law, and with whom he kept up a vigorous cor- 
respondence. 

Dickens's books were so much a part of himself 
that his numerous illustrators had necessarily to 
come very close to the author in order to get the 
full meaning of each story. For this reason Hablot 
K. Browne, George Cruikshank, George Catter- 
mole, and John Leech were on the closest and 
friendliest terms with the Novelist. Hablot K. 
Browne, who probably knew him most intimately of 
all, began to illustrate the fourth number of Pick- 
wick in 1836, and was constantly associated with 



304 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Dickens until 1859, the last book he illustrated be- 
ing " A Tale of Two Cities." 

At the time of their first meeting he was only 
twenty-one, and Dickens but twenty- four; the two 
young men had much in common and soon became 
great friends. Browne was unusually quick in 
catching an idea, and it was lucky that he was, for 
Dickens shot his ideas like sky-rockets, and made 
the most sudden demands. He would rush in upon 
him, read a scene, and demand an illustration, then 
he would rush away without even leaving the 
manuscript for him to consult. It is well known 
that he had to make twenty-nine sketches before 
producing a satisfactory portrait of Mr. Dombey. 

In the early days he was a most delightful com- 
panion, and on one occasion, in the midst of " Pick- 
wick," Dickens picked himself up " bag and bag- 
gage," took his wife and invited Browne to join 
them for a short holiday in Belgium, and, before 
the writing of " Nickleby," he it was who joined 
Dickens in the pilgrimage among the Yorkshire 
schools. But he did not catch the contagion of 
Dickens's sociability. After his marriage he with- 
drew into the country, and even Dickens had dif- 
ficulty in persuading him to spend the evening and 
meet a few friends. But our grandmothers can 
remember, when the green-backed " numbers " of 
the novels used to come out, how eagerly the name 
of " Phiz " was looked for, side by side with 
" Boz." 



DICKENS AND HIS FRIENDS. 305 

George Cruikshank was an elderly man when 
Dickens was beginning his career, and illustrated 
for him some of the " Sketches by Boz " and 
*' Oliver Twist." They did the same sort of char- 
acter work, Dickens with his pen — Cruikshank 
with his pencil, and one would not brook inter- 
ference or suggestion from the other, so the busi- 
ness partnership did not last very long, though the 
friendship continued for many years. Dickens 
was frank in his admiration of Cruikshank's won- 
derful work. 

George Cattermole was a friend of long years' 
standing, and more than usually intimate from the 
fact that his wife was a distant cousin of the 
Dickens family. He was twelve years older than 
Dickens, and supplied the illustrations for Master 
Humphrey's Clock, which, as we know, included 
" The Old Curiosity Shop " and " Barnaby Rudge." 
He was really more than a mere illustrator ; he was 
a painter of no small power. Dickens was his great 
admirer as well as his friend, and trusted him im- 
plicitly in the illustration of these two picturesque 
stories. His letters to him were always most af- 
fectionate, brimming over with kindly, friendly in- 
terest. 

Daniel Maclise had the seal of warm friendship 
besides the rare genius which endeared him to 
Dickens. Forster was the link between these two 
remarkable men, for he brought them together 
when to all three " the world was young." He 



306 CHARLES DICKENS. 

was a year older than Dickens, and he died just 
a few weeks before the friend, who Hved long 
enough to pay him tribute at an Academy dinner. 
Here are his touching words, spoken from a heart 
whose restless, throbbing beats were numbered! 

" The gentlest and most modest of men, the 
freest as to his generous appreciation of young as- 
pirants, and the frankest and most large-hearted 
as to his peers, incapable of a sordid or ignoble 
thought, gallantly sustaining the true dignity of 
his vocation without a grain of self-assertion, 
wholesomely natural at the last as at the first, ' in 
wit a man — simplicity a child,' no artist of what- 
soever denomination, I make bold to say, ever went 
to his rest having a golden memory more free from 
dross, or having devoted himself with a truer chiv- 
alry to the art goddess he served." 

Could one man give a more glowing tribute to 
another than this! 

Maclise designed some of the frontispieces to the 
Christmas books, but this was only done out of 
pure friendship for the author. Maclise's fame 
lay in his historical paintings. 

John Leech, another of Dickens's illustrators 
was also a warm personal friend; he and Doyle 
were both artists for '' Punch," and both did work 
in the Christmas books, but Leech and Dickens were 
much more intimate personally than through busi- 
ness. 

The Stones, Frank and Marcus, both illustrated 



DICKENS AND HIS FRIENDS. 307 

for Dickens, and won his friendship. Frank illus- 
trated " The Haunted Man," and Marcus '* Our 
Mutual Friend." 

What brought these men even more closely to- 
gether was the " merry company of actors " of 
which Dickens was the star. Mark Lemon, the 
editor of '^ Punch," also joined the forces, and the 
result, as we all know, was certainly a congenial 
band of friends. 

Mrs. Cowden Clarke, Miss Mary Boyle, Lady 
Blessington, Mrs. Carlyle, Miss Coutts, and his 
sister-in-law, Georgina Hogarth, all enjoyed the sun- 
shine of his rare friendship, and there were num- 
bers who partook of his charming hospitality who 
could be added to the list. 

He made many warm friends in America, among 
them Professor Felton, Longfellow, Washington 
Irving, Mr. and Mrs. Fields; not mere acquaint- 
ances but good firm friends, who would have 
served him in any emergency, and of whom he al- 
ways spoke affectionately. 

Carlyle, he loved and admired greatly; Mrs. 
Carlyle not less so ; and Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton 
was a warm personal friend. Douglas Jerrold was 
another friend among the happy band of actors, 
and Talfourd (afterwards Judge) was one of the 
early-day friends. Could any man fail to be some- 
thing or somebody — surrounded by such friends ! 

We must remember, in viewing Charles Dickens 
with his work behind him, that he sprang origi- 



3o8 CHARLES DICKENS. 

nally from the great Middle Class of English folk, 
and that his name finally was associated only with 
the best and highest in the land, entirely through 
his own efforts and by the might of his own brilliant 
mind. He was as proud as a child of the position 
he had won, but he was never overbearing. He 
liked to talk about it, to tell how he had fought 
his way to the front, and against what great odds 
he had had to fight, and his keen lined face would 
light up with these memories — as he talked. 

He liked to take his chosen friends back to his 
boyish haunts, to Chatham — to Rochester, he 
liked to invite them to Gad's Hill, and make them 
look down upon the sweep of Kentish country, and 
point out the spots where the " small queer boy " 
used to linger in the by-gone days. He only took 
his chosen intimates to these spots, hallowed by as- 
sociation, but many a day was spent rambling in 
the dear haunts, accompanied by his wife and his 
friends, dining or supping at the old Inns, made 
famous in his books. 

He frequently popped his friends into his stories, 
and the likenesses, though often grotesque, were al- 
ways clever. H the friend was sensible, he took 
these little jokes serenely, but Leigh Hunt was thin- 
skinned enough to be irritated at the excellent like- 
ness of him in Harold Skimp ole in " Bleak House. '* 
Walter Savage Landor, another of Dickens's 
special friends, was boldly drawn as Boythorne in 
the same book. And much as he admired Forster, 



DICKENS AND HIS FRIENDS. 309 

it is certain that in describing Mr. Podsnap's argu- 
mentative traits and loud insistent air in " Our 
Mutual Friend " he was thinking of his friend, who, 
like Mr. Podsnap, had a sweeping way of putting 
a disagreeable subject behind him. 

" ' Besides ' said Mr. Podsnap, ... * the 
subject is disagreeable to me, I will go so far as to 
say it is an odious one.' He finished with that 
flourish of his arm which added more expressively 
than any words, * and I remove it from the face 
of the earth ' " and Forster, far from being angry 
at this caricature, rather enjoyed it. 

Another friend whom Dickens admired greatly 
was Thomas Hood, and it may not be generally 
known that the famous " Song of the Shirt " had 
its origin in a suggestion of Dickens, who in a 
letter had called attention to the case of an un- 
fortunate sempstress who made shirts at three- 
pence apiece, and, being robbed of these hard earn- 
ings, attempted to drown herself. In the next 
number of Hood's magazine appeared " The Song 
of the Shirt." 

There were certain points of resemblance be- 
tween his friend. Judge Talfourd and Tommy 
Traddles of " Copperfield " fame, but the novelist's 
drawing of the famous Traddles was so tender 
and touching that no living original could have 
found fault with it. 

Wilkie Collins was very intimate, not only with 
Dickens himself, but with his entire household. 
21 



310 CHARLES DICKENS. 

The two were closely associated in their literary- 
work, and their methods of writing were much 
alike. The two men were very congenial, and 
Collins's brother married Kate Dickens, with great 
pomp and ceremony, at Gad's Hill. 

A friend to Dickens meant the whole history of 
friendship; once the pact was sealed, the bond was 
fast, and there was no trouble too great — nor 
sacrifice, either, for that matter — in the cause of 
friendship. His house was opened to his friends, 
and nothing in the way of hospitality was forgotten 
or neglected in their service, and if these friends 
happened to be very young, why, all the more rea- 
son for kindness and hospitality. 

Of Dickens's friends among children there is 
absolutely no count. A child was to him a thing 
apart, and the small boys or girls had only to glance 
at the kind, keen face, with its humorous lines, 
and the bright, searching eyes which seemed to 
probe to their timid hearts, to feel sure that they 
had found a friend. His own large family of 
children drew many youngsters around them, and 
to all of these Dickens had the manner of a kindly 
boy. 

In a letter to another friend, Mrs. Watson, 
Dickens tells of his going " gypsying " down the 
river with his son Charley and three of his school- 
fellows, himself the biggest boy among them. He 
was to meet the boys at Slough, but the rain came 
down in torrents before he started ; however, rather 



DICKENS AND HIS FRIENDS. 31 1 

than disappoint them, Dickens and a friend who 
volunteered to go with them took the train, ac- 
companied by two large hampers of provisions. 
The boys had begun to think the grown-ups were 
not coming; they had been up since four, though 
the train was not due till eleven, but the rain had 
dashed their spirits. However, they soon cheered 
up when they saw the two gentlemen, and when the 
hampers came out of the luggage van they danced 
in wild glee. Dickens took them first to the tailor's, 
where they were all decked out in boating togs, 
then to the boat-house, where a gentleman by the 
name of " Mahogany " — so called on account of 
his sun-burnt complexion — joined the company. 
There was a boat with a striped awning ordered 
for the occasion, and into this the happy youngsters 
tumbled and rowed down the river. 

Dickens owned that he trembled when it came 
to feeding hour. They dined in a field, and what 
those boys devoured in the way of refreshments 
beggared even Dickens's description; he offered 
up one fervent prayer that one special boy might 
outlive the salad he took. They all pronounced 
the dinner " great " ; later, they took tea and rashers 
of bacon at a public-house, and came home in a 
prodigious thunder-storm, soaking wet, but happy, 
while Charley roared out a college song at the top 
of his lungs, and the others joined in the chorus: 

I don't care a fig what the people may think, 
But what will the Governor say ! 



312 CHARLES DICKENS. 

And as young Charley's " Governor " was sitting 
alongside, joining in the chorus, what did it matter 
after all? 

He tells of another occasion when he was the 
leading spirit of fun at a children's birthday party. 
The '' birthday girl " was one of his special friends. 
Miss Nina Macready, and the sleight-of-hand 
tricks he and Forster performed on that memorable 
night, sound wonderful even to-day. They pro- 
duced a plum pudding from an empty saucepan 
which they held over a fire made in Stanfield's hat, 
without even hurting the lining; they changed a 
box of bran into a guinea pig, and many other re- 
markable things known to the trade. 

On another occasion it was Dickens who, in his 
kind, fatherly way, drew out all the timid children 
at a party, made them recite their little pieces and 
sing their little songs ; it was he who led the games 
and joined in the fun. He was the friend, there- 
fore, of every child he met, and children know by 
instinct how to choose their friends. 

But where his friends were to be found in even 
greater numbers was among the poor, whose haunts 
he knew so well, whose pathetic history he has told 
us so beautifully, whose cause he served throughout 
his life, so nobly. 

No matter what honors or what good fortune 
came his way, his pen was always ready for the 
people, that great mass of people struggling in 
the darkness; his hand was always stretched forth 



DICKENS AND HIS FRIENDS. 313 

to help them toward the light and the vision of 
better things. His greatest gift to these poor 
friends of his was " Hard Times," and it rang 
through England at a time when the laboring class 
most needed his help. It was more than a ser- 
mon — it was a true story of Hfe, and it was the 
sign and seal of a great friendship. 

Nothing was ever too much to ask or to give in 
the name of friendship. Dickens's friends could 
have shared his very coat with him — had they 
needed it; indeed, they shared many things that 
the world knew nothing about. 

He had beautiful, old-fashioned ideas about 
friendship; he had old-fashioned ideas about many 
things — but he could draw real men and women, 
real boys and girls, and Time has not washed the 
colors from his pictures. 



CHAPTER XV. 

DICKENS AT HOME. 




Y home, we mean Gad's Hill, the dream 
of his boyhood, the reality of his middle 
age, the place of all places where he 
most desired to be, and where he was 
most contented to stay; and from the pen of his 
own daughter, Mamie, we have an ideal picture of 
what he was in the home life about him. 

" His care and thought fulness about home mat- 
ters," she tells us, . . . " were really marvel- 
ous when we remember his active, eager, restless, 
working brain. . . . He was full of the kind 
of interest in a house which is commonly confined 
to women, and his care of and for us as wee chil- 
dren did most certainly pass the love of women. 
His was a tender and most affectionate nature." 
Speaking of his love for children, she says: 
" We can see, by the different child characters in 
his books, what a wonderful knowledge he had of, 
children, and what a wonderful and truly womanly 
sympathy he had with them in all their childish 
joys and griefs. I can remember with us, his own 
children, how kind, considerate, and patient he al- 
ways was. 

314 



DICKENS AT HOME. 315 

'' But we were never afraid to go to him in any 
trouble, and never had a snub from him or a cross 
word under any circumstances. He was always 
glad to give us ' treats,' as he called them, . . . 
and if any favor had to be asked we were always 
sure of a favorable answer. On these occasions 
my sister ' Katie ' was generally our messenger, we 
others waiting outside the study door to hear the 
verdict. 

'' There never existed, I think, in all the world, 
a more thoroughly tidy or methodical creature than 
was my father. He was tidy in every way — in 
his mind, in his handsome, graceful person, in his 
work, in keeping his writing-table drawers, in his 
large correspondence, in fact, in his whole life." 

When the girls were little, in the old days at 
Devonshire Terrace, they had a garret room, which 
their father beautified and furnished for them, and 
whenever they put up a new ornament or hung a 
new picture, " Father " had to be dragged to the 
top of the house to see the latest addition. No 
lady of the house could have been more particular 
about visiting every room once a day, and *' if a 
chair was out of its place, or a blind not quite 
straight, or a crumb left on the floor, woe betide 
the offender." 

'' His punctuality," his daughter writes, " was 
almost frightful to an unpunctual mind." 

His friends, on being invited to Gad's Hill, were 
thoroughly posted as to time of arrival and depar- 



3l6 CHARLES DICKENS. 

ture. Dickens was always on time to meet them, 
but if they were late through fault of their own, 
they either paid the penalty and walked to the 
house, or else hired a " fly." 

His sympathy with sickness or suffering was 
very keen, and he was splendid in a sick room. 
His quick step, his clear, cheery voice, his bright 
talk, made people forget their aches and pains, and 
he seemed to know exactly what to do in an 
emergency. 

As the children grew older, especially the girls, 
he made great companions of them. Mary became 
his right hand — a quiet, serene presence in the 
house, but Kate had the power of " drawing him 
out," and at their own quiet dinner table he often 
shone most brilliantly. 

His eyes — those wonderful eyes — seemed to 
impress everyone, and never lost their power. 
They lent the chief expression to his face, now soft 
and dreamy, now full of fun and laughter. 

But the years and the incessant work had made 
changes in his face, it was seamed and wrinkled, 
and at fifty-eight he was at least ten years older 
than he should have been. He had put too much 
into his life and was an elderly man when he should 
have just turned the corner of middle age. That 
is why Gad's Hill, with its restful beauty, was so 
delightful to him, and as he drove or walked along 
the beautiful roads and by-ways, he could pick up 
here and there the threads of his stories, for most 



DICKENS AT HOME. '317 

of them held a touch of the Kentish country as 
well as of London. From " Pickwick " to " Edwin 
Drood " — his last unfinished novel — we can pick 
flowers along this beautiful country wayside. He 
might write his books in Lausanne, in Genoa, or in 
Paris, but they breathed of London and this coun- 
try-side. 

He liked the ancestral air about his new home; 
he hoped to make it the beginning of a family 
estate ; he wanted to be buried near it, in some peace- 
ful, quiet spot away from the world, but he had 
much to do before he thought of dying. And yet 
in many little ways he himself saw signs of break- 
ing health; he was often very tired, and after his 
reading tour in America, this fatigue was very 
noticeable to others. But he would let nothing mar 
the lightness and the gaiety of his home life. 

Miss Dickens describes the joyous Christmas 
frolics and Twelfth Night festivities, where the 
more children that assembled under his roof — the 
merrier. He wrote once to a friend : 

" The Actuary of the national debt couldn't cal- 
culate the number of children who are coming here 
on Twelfth Night, in honor of Charley's birthday, 
for which occasion I have provided a magic lantern 
and divers other tremendous engines of that nature. 
But the best of it is that Forster and I have pur- 
chased between us the entire stock-in-trade of a 
conjuror, the practice and display whereof is en- 
trusted to me. And if you could see me conjuring 



3l8 CHARLES DICKENS. 

the company's watches into impossible tea-caddies, 
and causing pieces of money to fly, and burning 
pocket handkerchiefs — without burning 'em, and 
practicing in my own room without anybody to 
admire, you would never forget it as long as you 
live." 

Miss Dickens says: 

" One of these conjuring tricks comprised the 
disappearance and reappearance of a tiny doll, which 
would announce most unexpected pieces of news 
and messages to the different children in the audi- 
ence; this doll was a particular favorite, and its 
arrival eagerly awaited and welcomed." 

Later, some tinier folks still were added to his 
audience, his own grandchildren, the children of 
Charles, who became his boon companions. He 
found them great fun, and taught them to call him 
'' Wenerables," as the immortal Sam Weller would 
have done. They considered it the grave and 
proper name for him, much to the amusement of the 
family. 

Gad's Hill was always so full of guests for the 
holiday season that a cottage in the village was hired 
for the bachelor members of the party, and jolly 
times they had. For Dickens made a delightfully 
entertaining host, his conversation at his own table 
was so full of humor and real fun that the servants 
were often convulsed with laughter as they waited 
on the guests. 

" One morning," we are told, " it was the last 



DICKENS AT HOME. 319 

day of the year, I remember, while we were at 
breakfast at Gad's Hill, my father suggested that 
we should celebrate the evening by a charade, to 
be acted in pantomime. The suggestion was re- 
ceived with acclamation, and amid shouts and laugh- 
ing we were then and there — guests and members 
of the family — allotted our respective parts. My 
father went about collecting 'stage properties,' re- 
hearsals were ' called ' at least four times during the 
morning, and in all our excitement no thought was 
given to the necessary part of a charade — the audi- 
ence, whose business it is to guess the pantomime. 
At luncheon, someone asked suddenly, * But what 
about the audience?' *Why, bless my soul,' said 
my father, ' I'd forgotten all about that.' " 

The invitations were sent out at once and the 
evening turned out to be a memorable one. Then 
towards midnight, in the midst of the frolic, actors 
and audience streamed out into the hall " and, throw- 
ing wide open the door, my father, watch in hand, 
stood waiting to hear the bells ring in the New 
Year. All was hush and silence after the laughter 
and merriment! Suddenly the peal of bells 
sounded, and, turning, he said, ' A happy New Year 
to us all ! God bless us ! ' Kisses, good wishes, and 
shaking of hands brought us back to the fun and 
gaiety of a few minutes earlier." 

One New Year's day he organized field sports 
for the villagers, and nothing was spared to make 
this winter fete a success. Between two and three 



320 CHARLES DICKENS. 

thousand people, from all parts of the country, came 
to witness these sports, chiefly the poor laborers, 
soldiers, sailors, and navvies, but so great was Dick- 
ens's influence over them that he himself wrote to 
a friend, with satisfaction: 

" There was not a dispute, and there was no 
drunkenness whatever. I made them a little speech 
from the lawn, at the end of the games, saying that, 
please God, we would do it again next year. They 
cheered most lustily and dispersed. The road be- 
tween this and Chatham was like a fair all day; 
and surely it is a fine thing to get such perfect 
behavior out of a reckless seaport town." 

When at work Dickens required absolute quiet, 
and yet he liked to be near to the noise and bustle 
of London, so that he could get to it when the utter 
stillness was too much for him. He says : " For a 
week or fortnight I can write prodigiously in a 
retired place, a day in London setting and starting 
me up again. But the toil and labor of writing 
day after day without that magic lantern is im- 
mense." 

When they lived at Tavistock House, Miss Dick- 
ens relates, she had a serious illness, and during her 
tedious convalescence her father suggested that she 
should be carried down every day into his study. 
The quiet child was afraid of disturbing him, but 
he was eager to have her. 

** On one of these mornings," she writes, " I was 
lying on the sofa endeavoring to keep perfectly 



DICKENS AT HOME 3^1 

quiet while my father wrote busily and rapidly at 
his desk, when he suddenly jumped from his chair 
and rushed to the mirror which hung near, and in 
which I could see the reflection of some extraor- 
dinary facial contortions which he was making. 
He returned rapidly to his desk, wrote furiously 
for a few moments, and then went again to the 
mirror. The facial pantomime was resumed, and 
then, turning toward, but evidently not seeing me, 
he began talking rapidly in a low voice. Ceasing 
this soon, however, he returned once more to his 
desk, where he remained silently writing until 
luncheon time. Then I knew that ... he 
had thrown himself completely into the character 
that he was creating, and that for the time being, 
he had not only lost sight of his surroundings, but 
had actually become . . . the creature of his 
pen." 

His study was always the pleasantest of pleasing 
places. The one at Gad's Hill was lined with books, 
and to preserve the library effect, counterfeit book- 
backs were arranged on shelves to fit the door of 
the room. These book-backs all had titles chosen 
by Dickens himself, whose sense of humor could 
not be suppressed. Here are some of them: 

Commonplace Book of the Oldest Inhabitant. 2 vols. 
Growler's Gruffiology, with Appendix. 4 vols. 
The Books of Moses and Sons. 
Lady Godiva on the Horse. 
Miss Buffin on Deportment. 



322 CHARLES DICKENS. 

Hansard Guide to Refreshing Sleep. (Many vols.) 

Opties. (Hooks and Eyes.) 

Acoustics. (Cod's Sounds.) 

Noah's Arkitecture. 2 vols. 

Chickweed. 

Groundsel. (By the Author of Chickweed.) 

Cats' Lives. 9 vols. 

Five Minutes in China. 3 vols. 

History of the Middling Ages. 6 vols. 

Jonah's Account of the Whale. 

Kant's Eminent Humbugs. 10 vols. 

Bowwowdom. 

The Quarrelly Review. 4 vols. 

Steele, by the Author of " Ion." 

On the Use of Mercury by the Ancient Poets. 

Drowsy's Recollections of Nothing. 

The Art of Cutting Teeth. 

Teazer's Commentaries. 

There were many other names on the shelves, but 
these are enough for illustration. 

When Dickens first moved to Gad's Hill on a 
certain memorable third of September, i860, he 
started a remarkable bonfire on the place. He 
wrote to Mr. W. H. Wills : 

" Yesterday I burnt in the field at Gad's Hill the 
accumulated letters and papers of twenty years. 
They sent up a smoke like the Genie when he got 
out of the casket on the seashore, and as it was 
an exquisite day when I began, and rained very 
heavily when I finished, I suspect my correspondence 
of having overcast the face of the heavens." 

A man is, of course, at liberty to do what he 



DICKENS AT HOME. 3^3 

likes with his own letters, but such reckless burn- 
ing seems a pity. His own private and particular 
letters, especially those of his family, he naturally 
wished to destroy, but he was so much in the eye 
of the public that he might have spared to them 
those letters which were of national or international 
interest. 

In the same manner, when John Forster prepared 
his friend's biography and made use of his own 
private letters and communications from Dickens, 
he had no hesitancy in snipping and cutting to suit 
his text, and then pasting them on his manuscript 
regardless of the closely-written back. To him 
those letters meant merely the letters of a friend; 
the literary world would have paid many guineas 
for the fragments. As it is, however, Dickens's 
letters to his friends received better treatment, and 
there are, besides the three volumes of his collected 
letters, many others which rise up from unex- 
pected sources. 

His love for animals, flowers, and birds, was 
almost a passion. Dogs were his favorites, and he 
was fond of telling an anecdote of a certain dog 
friend of his, the property of a lady whom he knew 
quite well. His name was " Of," and he was a. 
great good-humored, black Newfoundland dog. 
He used to go out every morning for a swim in 
the river, but his owner noticed that he always 
came back smelling of beer. She watched, and 
discovered that " Of " stopped each morning at a 



324 CHARLES DICKENS. 

certain beer shop and was supplied with his regular 
pint, by the man in charge, who explained to the 
lady in this fashion: 

" Yes, ma'am, I know he's your dog, ma'am, but 
I didn't when he first came. He looked in, ma'am, 
as a brickmaker might, and then he come in, as a 
brickmaker might, and he wagged his tail at the 
pots, and he giv a sniff round, and conveyed to me 
as he was used to beer. So I draw'd him a drop, 
and he drunk it up. Next morning he come agen 
by the clock, and I draw'd him a pint, and ever 
since he has took his pint reg'lar." 

" On account of our birds," writes Miss Dick- 
ens, " cats were not allowed in the house ; but from 
a friend in London I received a present of a white 
kitten — Williamina — and she and her numerous 
offspring had a happy home at Gad's Hill. She 
became a favorite with all the household and showed 
particular devotion to my father. I remember on 
one occasion when she had presented us with a 
family of kittens, she selected a corner of father's 
study for their home. She brought them one by 
one from the kitchen and deposited them in her 
chosen corner. My father called to me to remove 
them, saying that he could not allow the kittens 
to remain in his room. I did so, but Williamina 
brought them back again, one by one. Again they 
were removed. The third time, instead of putting 
them in a corner, she placed them all, and herself, 
beside them, at my father's feet, and gave him such 



DICKENS AT HOME. 325 

an imploring glance that he could resist no longer, 
and they were allowed to remain.'' 

One of these kittens was quite deaf, and he had 
no name. He became attached to Dickens and fol- 
lowed him about the garden like a dog. One night 
when he was reading by the light of a candle, with 
the cat beside him, suddenly the light went out ; he 
was interested in his book, so he relighted the candle 
and went on reading; a few minutes later he caught 
the cat in the act of putting out the candle again 
with his paw, which meant, " No more reading 
to-night, Mr. Dickens," so the hint was taken, and 
puss was given the petting he demanded. 

Dogs, however, were the favorite animals of the 
household. There were "Turk," a beautiful 
mastiff, and "Linda," a St. Bernard; there were 
" Don and Bumble," big Newfoundlands; there was 
" Sultan," an Irish bloodhound ; " and last, though 
not least — except in size — was ' Mrs. Bouncer,' 
a tiny Pomeranian, who won her way by her grace 
and daintiness into the affections of every member 
of the household. My father became her special 
slave, and had a peculiar voice for her — as he had 
for us when we were children — to which she would 
respond at once, by running to him from any part 
of the house when she heard his call. He delighted 
to see her with the large dogs, with whom she gave 
herself great airs, 'because,' as he said, 'she looks 
so preposterously small.' " 

"Mrs. Bouncer" was quite a character in the 



326 CHARLES DICKENS. 

family, and Dickens used to send messages to her 
when he was away from home. Mr. Percy Fitz- 
gerald has written a great deal concerning the per- 
sonal life of Charles Dickens, in which he remarks 
on his love for dogs and the parts they played in 
his many novels. In a certain interesting article 
by him, entitled *' The Landseer of English Fic- 
tion," he has dwelt on this side of his character. 
Landseer, we know, was a wonderful painter of 
dogs, and Dickens had that same touch in his de- 
scriptions. 

On his return from his last visit to America, 
Dickens wrote the following account of his welcome 
home by the dogs : " As you ask me about the dogs, 
I begin with them. When I came down first, I 
came to Gravesend — five miles off. The two 
Newfoundland dogs, coming to meet me with the 
usual carriage and the usual driver, and beholding 
me coming in my usual dress, out at the usual door, 
it struck me that their recollection of my having 
been absent for any unusual time, was at once can- 
celled. They behaved (they were both young dogs) 
exactly in their usual manner, coming behind the 
basket phaeton as we trotted along, and lifting their 
heads to have their ears pulled, a special attention 
which they received from no one else. But when 
I drove into the stable yard, * Linda ' was greatly 
excited; weeping profusely, and throwing herself 
on her back that she might caress my foot with her 
great forepaws. Mamie's little dog, too, * Mrs. 



DICKENS AT HOME. 3^7 

Bouncer/ barked in the greatest agitation on being 
called down and asked, ' Who is this ? ' " 

There was a celebrated pet canary named Dick, 
the property of Miss Dickens, who died of old age 
and had a grave at Gad's Hill, and there was a 
certain fat, family horse named " Trotty Veck," 
who was also a great pet. 

In speaking of her father's readings, Miss Dick- 
ens says : " . » . into their performances and 
preparations he threw the best energy of his heart 
and soul, practicing and rehearsing at all times and 
places. The meadow near our home was a favorite 
place, and people passing through the lane, not 
knowing who he was or what doing, must have 
thought him a madman, from his reciting and ges- 
ticulation." 

Dickens gave his last public reading in St. James's 
Hall, London, on March 15, 1870, proposing from 
that time forth, to devote himself entirely to his 
writing. Returning to Gad's Hill, he at once 
plunged into his new book, '' The Mystery of Edwin 
Drood," the first part of which made its appearance 
in April, 1870. 

He was as keenly interested in this story as if it 
had been his first instead of his last, and to insure 
perfect quiet during his writing hours, he retired 
to the pretty little Swiss Chalet, which his friend, 
Mr. Charles Fechter (the well-known actor) had 
sent him as a present one Christmas, and which had 
been placed amid shrubbery and trees, in the most 



328 CHARLES DICKENS. 

attractive part of the grounds. We have often 
seen these Chalets in toy miniature. This one could 
be entered below, through a door in front, and a 
winding stairway on the outside led to the upper 
story. 

" My room is up among the branches of the trees," 
wrote Dickens to an American friend, " and the 
birds and the butterflies fly in and out, and the 
green branches shoot in at the open windows, and 
the lights and shadows of the clouds come and go 
with the rest of the company." 

And there in this quiet and repose was begun 
(and alas! left unfinished) his last book. As he 
wrote day after day, with all the old vigor and the 
old delight, he had no idea that the end would come 
for him with the first breath of the summer breeze. 
He only knew that life was very full still of all that 
a man holds dear, and he wanted to live to do more 
work, and add more luster to his name, and leave a 
brighter heritage to his children. 

The story itself — at least, all we have of it — 
is darkened with gloom and foreboding, so perhaps 
after all he was touched with a presentiment of his 
coming fate; but the sunny life went on at Gad's 
Hill, and none knew of the silent battle with mortal 
weakness, during the writing of " Edwin Drood." 
He never complained, though his face often bore 
signs of the struggle. 

He was always improving Gad's Hill; the walls 
and doors of the drawing-room had been lined with 



DICKENS AT HOME. 3^9 

mirrors, and when Dickens showed it to Mrs. Col- 
lins, his youngest daughter, he said: 

" Now, Katie, you behold your parent's latest and 
last achievement,'' and she had replied laughingly, 
" I believe. Papa, that when you become an angel, 
your wings will be made of looking-glass, and 
your crown of scarlet geraniums." Miss Dickens, 
in her reminiscences, adds : 

" The ' last improvement ' — in truth, the very 
last, was the building of a conservatory between 
the drawing and dining rooms. My father was 
more delighted with this than with any previous 
alteration, and it was certainly a pretty addition 
to the quaint old villa. 

"... He was out with the dogs for the last 
time on the sixth of June, when he walked into 
Rochester for the Daily Mail. My sister — who 
had come to see the latest * improvement ' . . . 
was to take me with her to London on her return, 
for a short visit. The conservatory or * improve- 
ment ' which Katie had been summoned to inspect, 
had been stocked, and by this time many of the 
plants were in full blossom. Everything was at its 
brightest, and I remember distinctly my father's 
pleasure in showing my sister the beauties of his 
' improvement.' " 

The next day, Monday, June the seventh, the two 
young ladles left for London. Dickens always 
hated to say good-by, and at the time of their going, 
he was in the Chalet, writing busily. *' Just as we 



330 CHARLES DICKENS. 

were about to start," Miss Dickens tells us, '' my 
sister suddenly said : ' I must say good-bye to 
Papa,' and hurried over to the Chalet ... as 
a rule my father would hold up his cheek to be 
kissed, but this day he took my sister in his arms, 
saying, * God bless you, Katie,' and there ' among 
the branches of the trees, among the birds and but- 
terflies, and the scent of flowers,' she left him, never 
to look into his eyes again." 

On June eighth, two hours before he was taken 
ill, he had written about Rochester and the 
Cathedral, about the " Resurrection and the Life," 
when he laid down his pen forever. 

That night at the dinner-table he was stricken 
down. His sister-in-law, who was with him, ter- 
rified at his pallor, begged him to lie down. *' Yes, 
on the ground," he said — the very last words he 
spoke. Then unconsciousness fell upon him, and 
the end came swiftly. On the ninth of June, with- 
out a struggle, and just one sigh, he closed his beau- 
tiful eyes, and the great human heart was still at 
last. 

His wish had been for a quiet grave in some 
well-loved corner of Gad's Hill, but the nation 
claimed its dead, and who better deserved a place 
in Westminster Abbey — than Charles Dickens ? 

There are many memorials of him, and from 
many pictures his kindly, genial face smiles out at 
us, but the saddest picture of all is called " The 
Empty Chair." Only a large sunny room, with a 



DICKENS AT HOME. 331 

bay window looking out upon the smiling English 
country. The desk is there, and on its shelf the 
little ornaments he loved to have about him. A 
writing-pad rests on the sloping ledge, but the chair 
tells the eloquent tale; it is pushed back just as if 
the Author had risen for one of his quick turns 
about the room ; there is a listening air about it, its 
arms seem stretched out for an embrace, the very 
room has a waiting aspect for the presence that will 
never come. 

And it seems as if the world were still waiting 
for another Dickens. There has been no one yet 
to fill the empty chair. 



(1) 



THE END. 



OCT 9 V}\^ 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
GOT § i^n 



